


it looks like we’ve got another mystery on our hands gang!

by pigeonstatueconundrum



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Scooby Doo Fusion, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Case Fic, Childhood Trauma, Eliot in Indiana, F/F, Found Family, Gay Teens Just Doing Their Best, Love at First Sight, M/M, Medicinal Drug Use, Multi, Platonic Soulmates at First Sight, Pre-Season/Series 01, Recreational Drug Use, Talking Animals, teenage runaways
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-01-16 01:26:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18511120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonstatueconundrum/pseuds/pigeonstatueconundrum
Summary: Eliot Waugh spends his last summer before college staying out of his father's way, escaping his bullies and creating the new person he’s going to be once he gets out of here. His plans are interrupted by a bizarre occurrence on the neighbouring Peach farm and the arrival of four strangers in a big blue van.The super stunning mega bitch, A girl claiming to be the (acting) High King of some fictional land, a tomato obsessed talking dog and Quentin Coldwater, an adorable  high-strung super nerd in desperate need of Lasik.They’re on the road looking for weird mysteries and the True High King who was foretold to save Fillory. Eliot might just be the solution to both those problems.(Yes it's the great semi serious Scooby Doo/ Magicians crossover)





	1. dark and stormy night

 

**dark and stormy night**

_Whiteland, Indiana_

_July 2009_

 

Eliot Waugh watches his reflection raise the cigarette to its lips. He pauses mid gesture to reset the position of his little finger, letting it curve just so. Satisfied, Eliot inhales slowly, watching the smoke curl from his mouth.

 

He’s always spent a lot of his time watching his face and fingers. Before it was pure act of survival, every motion scrutinised through the crucible of if it's too girly, too soft, too gay. When just the way you carry your backpack can lead to you lying in the Nurse's office about how you got a broken arm you start paying attention to the little things. It was an arbitrary set of standards Eliot never understood and yet was always failing. He had been sold a false version of what being a teenager would be like. Be yourself really was garbage advice.

 

 _Himself_ really was an unknown quantity.  Eliot hadn’t spent valuable time and effort sleeping through biology class just, so he could have opinions on nature vs nurture. All he knows is the thrum of _not this, not this not this_ , beating in the back of his mind.

 

So he buys paisley ties in charity shops, reads books on tasting wine that he isn’t legally able to drink, practices smoking with the air of someone who doesn’t know how to uncouple a muck spreader from a tractor. All he has is an imperfect version of the sort of person he wants to be. It’s a project, something to do.  To keep his mind on the hypothetical salons of Paris and night spots of New York rather than his face rubbed into the dirt under Eric Tomlin's sneakers.

 

For pleasure as well as business. Seeing the shadow of something aesthetically worthy in the elegant way his long fingers curve around the cigarette. He exhales and stretches out a leg, the elegant motion somewhat offset by the dusty overalls. It’s a motion cribbed solely from his Brideshead fantasy. The inspiration is poking out from its usual hiding spot under the hay bale, it’s distinctive cover dented from use despite the Whiteland Public Library plastic dust cover.

 

Eliot likes to pretend Evelyn Waugh was an ancestor of his, or at least a spiritual one. Post war London is as far removed from rural Indiana as you can get, but Eliot will take it. All his real ancestors were farmers or fruit obsessed gamblers who nearly lost the family land.

 

Dad really liked comparing Eliot to that one. Y _ou want to spend your life acting like your better than all of us_ , he’d asked after watching Eliot throw up after a night of underage drinking, _or do you actually want to do something for the good of this family_. Eliot wasn’t sure how Great Great Uncle Anselm had fit into _that_ , but it was best not to argue.

 

With a sigh he finishes the cigarette. Sliding the discarded butt into the packet and returning it to its hiding place. Once he finishes the pack he’ll find an anonymous public bin to throw it away in. Keeping it on him until then will only draw his father's ire.   He throws the ash from the tiny window, watching it catch on the slight summer breeze, doing nothing to cut through the heat even this late in the evening. His fingers are already itching for another, but he won’t. He’s already risking too much coming out to the abandoned hayloft after sundown. By the time he’s feels ready to sneak back to his bed the smell will have evaporated.

 

The sanctity of this place only tentatively maintained through his father's disinterest. If his brothers were still here he’d have been ratted out for sure. But they’re all gone for the summer, out from under his father's feet and from over Eliot’s head. Chris using his break from agricultural college to harass co-eds. Jacob was working with their Uncle in Howpoint and Pete was waiting for Cindy to give birth. Any of his kin would relish the chance to tell dad where he’d snuck off to now. Brotherhood a constant brutal campaign in which information on the enemy troops was the lifeblood. It was always rather Little Ellie’s hide than theirs.

 

And Mum… well, even when she’d been here physically she never exactly been all there. Her being dead at least gave her an excuse not to be present now.

 

The whole summer still stretches before him, hot and stagnant. Eliot walking the tightrope of avoiding his father and being seen doing just enough work around the farm to be left alone. In the evenings he can hide up here among the other broken and useless junk his father has kept in the hope of someday finding a use for. They stand below the loft platform, rusting in silent judgement. The broken generator even his father couldn’t fix, his grandfather's old chemistry set, His mother’s clothes entombed in yellowing cardboard boxes.  

 

Eliot’s also been stashing things here for years, items with the opposite emotional attachment. The few books worth stealing from the library, pornography, that the thrill of owning more erotic that the images within, a meagre collection of clothing that wasn’t made of denim or canvas. Ever since working out how to climb through the window to the loft via the dead tree, Eliot comes up here to just be alone. Time to give the concept of being himself a try, with no one to judge but the rusting bones of rejected farm equipment.

 

The old peach tree, was withered and barren, forgotten despite his father’s attempts to get it to bear fruit. Eliot remembers when he was seven watching his father sweating in the summer heat, swearing as the tree wouldn’t even produce a leaf let alone any sweet fruit. But Eliot has always found its branches, growing against the side of the barn, were solid enough for him to climb.

 

 He retrieves his copy of Brideshead Revisited and dusts off the hay clinging to it. He opens it up and retrives his most precious possession.  

 

The print hasn’t changed despite the number of times Eliot has read and reread it. The letter congratulates him into getting into SUNY Purchase and looks forward to seeing him in the Autumn. After all this time he still feels the sweet thrill of it; the acceptance, the excitement, the fear. He’s getting out of here. The Summer feel paradoxical with this proof in hand. His future the closest it’s ever been yet still too far away. Yet still not enough time to plan how he’s getting to New York. He has copies of the bus schedules and train timetables, almost illegible with hasty notes now. He doesn’t have enough clothes or money or books, but he does have hope, as stupid and as foolish as that feels. He’s getting out of here and leaving Eliot Waugh behind for good.  

 

A bright light dazzles him out of his reverie. Shuddering, Eliot ducks down below the window ledge, convinced he’s been found and any second now his father's voice will sound the death knell for his freedom. But the voices don’t come. Slowly Eliot hesitantly pokes his head through the window, looking for the source of the commotion.

 

Everything is still. The corn fields of Waugh Farm inescapably stretching out across the horizon. Eliot strains is ears, prey sensitive, but the only sound the wind shivering through the ears. From his high vantage point Eliot can make Old Man Peterson’s place. The two properties are only divided by a thin but high fence, ruthlessly maintained by Eliot’s father to keep the blossom from Peterson’s orchard out. Samuel Peterson’s fields are as far from the regimented perfection of Eliot’s fathers. A fact Dad laments frequently. Grumbling over the state of the neighbourhood, glaring at Eliot over his newspaper as if he’s to blame for Peterson's lack of interest in maintaining his orchards.

 

Eliot can see Peterson’s house, a slash of off-white in the middle of the trees. He can just about make out the warped edges of the windowsills, the empty flower pots by the peeling paint door. Despite the lack of care to the house, the peaches growing on his trees are perfection. Ripe and begging to be picked.

 

The Light is sweeping across the fruit, arriving at the windows of the house, swaying over the dirty panes. Eliot heart is in his throat as he watches Samuel Peterson’s emerge from the house. Even from far away Eliot can see how haggard he looks, still fully dressed despite the late hour. The open door spills a little light out from the TV, eerily backlighting his neighbour in the doorframe.

 

Eliot watches as Peterson’s expression turns to anger, confusion, and then going bone white in fear as he lays eyes on something within the blinding light. It’s too bright for Eliot to make out, his eyes hurting even to try. Peterson stumbles back into his house, scrambling to close the door behind him. The curtains are thrown closed across the window, the red dusty fabric illuminated against the glass.

 

The Light stays where it is, cold and still. Eliot doesn’t move, his breath coming in quiet pants, instincts screaming to stay still and stay silent. The Light starts to dim slowly. And as that happens Eliot thinks he can make out a figure moving within it.

 

A long thin body. Grey skin, Elongated arms, a bulbous head and giant black eyes. Eliot blinks as the honest to god alien slowly fades from view.

 

“What the fuck.” Eliot whispers, huddling into the hay bale. “What the very fuck is going on?”


	2. a groovy kind of gal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot joins the 21st century, Quentin eats a peach

The ugliest van Eliot has ever seen is parked down the road from the Library.

 

Eliot always chooses this seat by the window. Not for the view of the empty town square, laughably called the centre of Whiteland. More as an early warning system to see who is coming. The dirty glass of the library windows is great at obscuring who is cowering inside.

 

No one uses the library anyway. The selection of books is terrible and riddled with gaps, depending on what work of depravity the local PTA have got into their bonnet to ban this month. Eliot doesn’t even like Lolita and will never read it. Stealing it and hiding it in the hayloft was a symbolic gesture more than anything. The fantasy that someone might come along and appreciate his tiny library of filth, as well as how attractive the sort of dashing individual that would do such a thing, holds a lot of appeal.  

 

The computer monitor Eliot is sitting at is only just younger than him. It has the hue and smell of old cigarettes, going into seizures whenever you have more than one program open. It’s better than the alternative offered back at the farm. An ancient mackintosh which his father uses to painstakingly do his accounts on every month. Chris has a laptop, a prized graduation gift, but it’s all the way in Donaldson, beyond even Eliot’s powers to steal it away for a few hours.

 

So his only alternative, as it has always been, is the public library. The disinterested eye of the librarian is better than the outward hostile one he’d first experienced when he started seeking sanctuary here regularly. Being assumed to be like those other Waugh boys was only slightly worse now people realised he wasn’t anything like his brothers. People liked a known quantity, Eliot supposes.  For all getting drunk, knocking over mailboxes and knocking up the pharmacist's daughter was frowned upon, it was much better than being effete and way too into musical theatre.

 

Eliot pauses, hands hovering over the keyboard. He looks around the room, confirming that he is alone in the library. It’s just so embarrassing. What sort of wack-job googles aliens. Curiosity winning over, He considers the van. He’s not the only one. Passers-by are staring at it in disgust, noting down the registration plate for a future call to the neighbourhood watch.

 

It’s just so aggressively blue. Not a subtle royal blue or a slate grey blue. A turquoise blue clearly well-loved and repainted with care. The body is also covered in flowers, painted with enthusiasm rather than skill. The blooms cover the body, even the rusting hubcaps. The wheels also look in bad shape, caked in dust, the treads worn down nearly smooth.

 

From the library window Eliot can see into the front cab. The cracked orange vinyl of the driving seat is empty. But the owner has left a collection of balled up bits of paper, soda cups and (strangest of all) a plant pot, across the slope of the dashboard. A woman pushes her children past the van faster at the sight of the greenery. Eliot could have told her that was a tomatoes plant, hardly anything worth getting excited about.

 

The cab isn’t fully empty. There's a boy in a burnt orange jumper sitting in the passenger seat. Eliot’s interest fully piqued, he lets his fingers fall from the keyboard, now fully engaged in spying on the stranger.  

 

And he’s definitely a stranger. Eliot knows all the other guys his age in town, in the same way something small in the Savannah recognizes all the local sharp toothed predators. This creature, however, is no threat, at least not in a conventional way.

 

He’s lost to the world, totally absorbed in the book he has propped against his drawn-up knees. His eye flicker across the page behind a pair of thick framed spectacles. The style is horrifically old fashioned but suites him in the way that ugly fashion only makes beautiful people more stunning in comparison. Every so often he turns the page, the words eliciting only a small contented smile. Eliot watches, rapt, as long fingers change direction and absently tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. His soft brown hair is the perfect length to gather into a loose bun at the back of his head. Soft tendrils escaping the messy style to frame his expressive face.

 

 Something in the book makes the boy bite his lip and Eliot unconsciously mirrors the gesture. The tiny spark of pleasure/pain bringing some much-needed clarity to his lust fogged brain.

 

Eliot concentrates on the cursor. the blinking line keeping time with his heart. Mocking for him with an empty search bar waiting for him to write the embarrassing words.   _It would be better if I **was** looking up porn_, Eliot mutters, typing _aliens Indiana_ with a heavy heart.

 

As the ancient beast chugs into life, Eliot’s attention is inexorably drawn back to the boy in the van.

 

He’s eating a peach.

 

Eliot watches as neat white teeth tear into the soft flesh, unselfconscious as the juice drips down his fingers. The boy lets the book fall into his lap, using the spare hand to cradle the dripping fruit. He manages to cup the errant trail of nectar in his palms. This time, biting his lip does nothing to distract Eliot. His eyes are locked on the tableau; on the tongue lapping up the juice, the embarrassed smile, the finger’s cradling the soft fruit.

 

The computer gives an egregious whirr, startling Eliot back to reality. The search results have finished loading. It’s exactly what he’d imagined; crackpot blogs, sneering news articles and (as was always the case when you googled his home state) information about the most recent Indiana Jones film. Eliot sits back in the wheelie chair, the hard plastic digging into his skin. What had he expected, honestly.

 

The hair on the back of his neck starts to prickle. He turns around half in in heart expecting to see a wide pair of eyes staring at him behind thick frames. The gaze that meet his are much more aggressive.

 

“Are you finished on there?” A perfectly polished eyebrow raises in challenge.

 

She’s tiny, five feet of controlled aggression contained in a striped sundress. Visually arresting in the opposite way from the peach boy. Where he was softness, an unguarded obliviousness made it all the more precious, every inch of her is curated. A hairband crowning her perfectly straightened hair, matched shade to the green of her scarf. Her boots, expensive but well-made and the clear preference for quality that projects. 

 

Whereas the boy is holds fascination and intrigue, he knows this woman. The control and poise is familiar. Eliot’s already cataloguing the perfect mixture of boredom and annoyance she’s fixing him with, knowing he’ll be trying to replicate it in the bathroom mirror tonight.

 

Eliot stretches out his leg, keeping the practised movement slow and deliberate. Letting her know that he too can size her up. The shift in his posture changes something in her expression. She becomes, not less wary, but less bored. Which is much more interesting.

 

Attractive exciting people clearly are like buses. Wait long enough and then two come along at once.

 

Does he know her? It’s impossible Eliot knows. The toes of her purple suede ankle boots look like they’ve never been this side of the I-70 before but there’s something in the way she’s smirking at him, the affected cock to her head is familiar a bone deep way he’s never felt for anything in this town. Is it possible to be nostalgic for a person you’ve never met?

 

“Yeah, I’m good” he smiles at her. There’s nothing much he can do anyway; this line of enquiry was dead even before he started it.

 

He stretches out a hand, “I’m Eliot.”

 

Grabbing his hand, she smiles back all sharp teeth, “Margo.”

 

She wheels over another chair and settles down next to Eliot. She drops an incongruous overflowing satchel, under the desk. She gestures to the computer screen, “I can see that. Little grey men your thing?”

 

Eliot rolls his eyes at Margo. “Not grey, no.”

 

The admission is out before he can comprehend what he’s just admitted. Wary at catching her eye he looks out the window. Peach boy is still in the van. He’s down to the peach pit now, savouring the remaining flesh as he carries on reading his book.

 

Margo watches Eliot watching  a sliver of pink tongue licking an errant strand of sweet flesh. A slight blush tints Eliot's high cheek bones. Some people, Margo thinks, really suit summer love.  

 

“I get you.” She says, admiring the view. Honestly, Q gave the best shows unaware. “Aliens though?”

 

Eliot minimises the window, “It’s nothing.”

 

“Well it’s something if you’re doing the Bella googling vampires bit from Twilight.” Margo offers.

 

She matches his incredulous look with one of her own. “Those books are fucking hilarious. You’re not going to shame me for my taste in chic-lit, farm boy.”

 

 _Farm boy_ , well shit. It’s the jean, worn and full of hole through over wear rather than artful design. it’s the weird muscles in his hands and arms that give the manual labour away. His accent and word choice gave him away too probably.

Eliot pushes that down, only raising his hands in mock surrender under her scrutiny.  “Alright, Alright Team Edward, I surrender.”

“More Team Jacob.” Margo corrects absently, invading his personal space to grab the mouse and keypad. She changes the words in the search bar, making liberal use of quotation marks and filtering the results to more repeatable new sights with a flourish.

The boy in the van is sucking the peach pit now. His cheek hollowing as he draws out the last of the juice.  

“See this is how you do it.” Margo smirks as she draws him back to a much more useful list of search result. The news is few and far between. A few cases up country, the nearest in another farming community Eliot vaguely remembers passing through on the way to his uncles, but that was a year or two back. Nothing close though, no reports of lights in the sky or little grey men running around with ray guns. 

 

“Not bad, right.” Margo says admiring her handiwork.

 

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees, “For a snobby city chick.”

 

She’s unimpressed but still smirking, It’s good. If she teases him, He can tease her back. That’s what friends do right. God he’s pathetic.

 

“Oh I usually have people for this for me,” Margo tosses her hair over her shoulder in a pantomime of snobbishness, “but I know my way around a…”

 

“Hard drive.” Eliot wiggles his eyebrows.

 

Margo’s eyes gleam, the tip of her tongue poking from her teeth. “That works.”

 

Margo leans back in her chair. Unconsciously Eliot copies her. They consider each other. From the top of her gleaming curled hair to the bottom of his worn boots.

 

“Look at you all secret depths, we’ll make something of you baby.” She purrs.

 

Eliot leans his head on one hand, smirking into the palm of his hand. Margo blinks at him with big innocent doe eyes.

 

“Why are you interested in aliens.” She asks.

 

Eliot shrugs, “Long story. What about you?”

 

“Even longer story. Buy me a drink I might tell you.” She says all easy bravado

 

He laughs, “It’s 11.”

 

“Okay” she corrects with an irritated sigh. Day trading laws were for mere mortals. “An eggcream soda or whatever the fuck you hicks drink.”

 

He’s laughing at her when a meaty fist raps on the window. Eric Tomlin is grinning at them, his wide mouth hanging open as he presses against the glass.

 

“Hey Waugh, who’s your friend.” He calls through the glass.

 

“Oh gross.” Margo’s face draws up into the same face Eliot’s soul makes whenever the larger boy comes into view.

 

“He’s…” Eliot starts. Admitting this is just one of the bullies that still make his life miserable even after graduation is pathetic. At least the Peach boy isn’t still in the cab of the van seeing this. Eliot doesn’t think his fantasy could take that.

 

“Hey Waugh. Does she know you’re a fa…” Eric cuts of with a whimper, staring at something behind him. Eliot cranes his neck and sees it. The largest dog he’s ever seen.

 

It’s coat is a gleaming soft tan apart from its long pitch black muzzle. It’s blue eyes and long ears are pointing at Eric, taking in his shakes and whimpers as it inches closer. Eliot’s been around working dogs; large shaggy breeds created to work hard and survive in adverse conditions. You train them right and they’re real softies.  But this beast, This beast has something too sharp and clever in it's eyes. 

 

Slowly it opens its mouth, revelling gleaming rows of sharp teeth. Eric is already running in the opposite direction. It watches him go closely. Seeming to deem the danger over he trots over to the window and stares up at them with a big grin on his sweet doggy face. 

 

Eliot looks around to see if anyone else saw that. But the library is still empty. The other side of the street the Peach boy is leaning against the van door, laughing. For an electric moment Eliot catches his eye. The other boy stumbles, catching himself on the wing mirror. Eliot tries not to laugh.  

 

 Margo hasn’t noticed anything across the street. She fiddles with the ancient window, forcing the rusting hinges open to lean out and address the dog.

 

“Be cool,” She admonishes the grinning dog, “Shoo.”

 

The dog sits down on the pavement and with a sarcastic little wiggle.

 

“Seriously.” Margo groans. She grabs her satchel, muttering under her breath. She removes a Tupperware and snaps it open. The dog perks up.

 

She waves a bone shaped biscuit through the window. “You are such a fucking loser.” She tells him.

 

Satisfied, it wanders off, crunching the treat obnoxiously. Margo takes another from the box and pops it in her mouth.

 

“What?” She says as Eliot stares at her, “You want one.”

 

Fuck it. Eliot grabs one. They’re really good. Thick and crunchy without being dry. The spices subtle and addictive.

 

“Long story,” Margo demands with an imperious wave. She hands him another snack. “Lay it on me.”

 

And with inducement like that, how could he not. Elliot tells her about the hayloft, about The Light, Peterson’s horrified face, the extra-terrestrial figure he thought he saw.

 

Margo just nods, slowly savouring her own biscuit.

 

“That’s not weird to you.” Eliot asks, when his claim only enlists agreement.

 

“Oh it’s fucking weird.” Margo agrees. “It’s definitely Saturday morning cartoon and cereal mascott goofy.”

 

She leans forwards conspiratorially, “But weird is right in our wheelhouse.”

 

“Whose we?” Eliot asks, dropping his own voice to match hers.

 

Margo smiles, “My friends; Fen , Josh and Quentin.”

 

She gestures to Peach boy still leaning against the van. Every so often his eyes dart back to Eliot over the sides of his frames. It makes something clench in Eliot’s chest. “He’s with you?”

 

Margo hums, “Yup, that’s Quentin Coldwater, high strung super nerd.”

 

There is a closing of a door and the click of shoes on linoleum. The Librarian has returned, eyes zeroing in on the contraband food. Before she can take a breath, Margo is stowing the Tupperware into her satchel. 

  

“We’ll meet you at the farm, tomorrow.” Margo tells him, “We can talk then. What time is your dad out?”

 

“The Sycamore game starts at one.” Eliot replies, “He’ll be at the bar any time after that.”

 

“Perfect. We’ll see you then.” Margo promises. She whirls out in a flurry of lilac, darting past the Librarian before she can get a word out about proper library conduct.

 

Eliot remains sitting, dazed. It takes him a few moments to realise that in her haste to repack her bag something had fallen out in the confusion. It’s a piece of paper, attached to a scrap of burlap. The colour of the canvas is familiar.

 

 He turns it over and sees the words Waugh Farms emblazoned across it, the familiar logo with the two locked horns. It’s a from a sack of corn, Eliot has packed thousands of them in his lifetime and would recognise it anywhere. He’d been packing them only yesterday in fact, the last batch waiting to go out on the truck this afternoon. So why was the packaging date on this label, yellowed with age and crumbled from use, for today’s date?     

 


	3. ruh roh!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin & Eliot gets dirty, Fen breaks a nail

Mealtime at the Waugh household was always a fun affair.

 Dinner was at six every evening, taken at the same kitchen table, on the same plates Eliot had used when he was a child. Back then, Eliot had been able to hide behind the jostling of elbows and raised voices. Chris displaying his latest football injury, Pete and Jacob kicking each other under the table. Over the years death and age had pared back the numbers leaving Eliot and his father trapped in a stalemate at either end of the table. Muttering grace and repeating the same circular arguments.

 The eggshell blue of the walls was cracking, a small pile of plaster collecting along the window sill amongst the unused cook books and photo frames. The cracks continue across the ceiling halfway to the ceiling fan. Eliot traces the path of inevitable destruction, chewing as quickly as he dares.

 He sips and swallows, every motion carefully measured to make himself invisible.  His father fixes him with a glare as an ill-timed foot twitch creaks the ancient wood of his chair. Eliot’s already on thin ice after nearly burning dinner. Despite being considered next to useless in comparison to his siblings, Eliot is still expected to do their work in their absence. His arms ached from lifting sacks into the trucks, the back of his neck stinging with the familiar itch of sunburn.

 His devotion clearly hadn’t been convincing. From that glare Eliot can tell His father hadn’t been satisfied with his excuse of why he went into town that morning.

 “You’ll help me with the last of the planting tomorrow.” His father narrows his eyes at him over the top of his beer can. Eliot concentrates on a flick of foam at the corner of his father’s mouth.

Eliot nods, draining his water glass. His throat parched under the scrutiny.

His father grunts in agreement, “Do you some good to do some proper work.”

He gets up and takes his plate over to the bin, “You’re not at your fancy college yet.”

Eliot tamps down on a flinch as his father empties his plate. The scrape of a knife over china, scratches discordant in the tense atmosphere.

Eliot puts his hand in his pocket, reaching for the scratch of the canvas and the smoothness of the paper familiar in their strangeness. It’s paradoxical weight had got him through the day better than any paternal fear. All day while loading up the truck he’d looked at the sacks with new eyes. How had a label from this batch been in Margo’s bag? His inner eleven-year-old was bursting with ideas; time travel, parallel universes, magic. But Eliot had discovered nothing good ever came from listening to sad little nerds like that.  

It had been weathered and old, not like it had been printed today. Someone had had it for a long time. Treasured it and made sure it didn’t get damaged. Despite, or perhaps even because, of the mystery, Eliot is counting down the hours until he sees her again. Not just her though…But this close to his father he doesn’t dare even think about the boy in the van.

_Quentin Coldwater_ , he holds the name as silent as a whisper in his heart, sweet and reliable as a peach tree. He looks over at his father and meets those eyes, always surprised to see the same shade of light brown his own.

“I’m leaving in the fall.” He tells his father, heart hammering in his parched throat.

His father scoffs, dropping his unwashed plate in the sink. “You’ll be back by the spring.” He promises.

 Eliot says nothing as his father grabs another beer from the fridge. The slam of the door dislodges a photo of the family on Pete’s wedding day. A magnet for White River State Park falls under the fridge. 

“They’ll be plenty of work to be done by the time you come running back.”

 It was typical of his father to be so hyperbolic. There was never anything to do on the farm that time of year. The Corn was already harvested, The hated fertilization months away. Although he’s sure his father will find punishment enough if he comes back.

 He won’t come back, Eliot promises himself as he washes up the discarded crockery. He cleans the table and retrieves the photo and magnet. Eliot considers his own face frozen for posterity looking nauseous in his cheap suit. Still pretty cute though, Eliot smiles slightly and pins it back up.   

 

His father leaves him alone for the rest of the evening. An unexpected reprise. But alone in his room, there is nothing to distract Eliot from all the questions running through his head.

By midnight he’s a juddering mess, desperate for something to take his mind off the situation. Frustrated, his mind alights on the pack of cigarettes in the barn. Just one might settle his nerves. Aware of the TV still blaring downstairs, Eliot makes sure to open his window quietly before climbing out of the window and making his way through the fields.

He picks his way silently across the fields. Running his fingers through the newly sprouted corn, the leaves thick and green with new life. He walks the half a mile to the edge of the property heading towards the white boundary fence. In the half-light of the moon it glows in the moonlight. Despite his father’s best efforts, Eliot can just about make out the peach trees on the Peterson. With the promise of answers come morning, the twisting branches look less sinister than they did last night.

Eliot arrives at the side of the hayloft. He pats the side of the dead tree, feeling whimsically fond of the old thing.  He pulls himself up the branches with practised ease. He reaches the top and fumbles with the loft window, using his shoulders to push it open. He slides in head first, landing on the cushion topped hay positioned to catch his fall.

He forgoes lighting the old storm lantern, preferring locates his cigarettes and lighter by sense memory. Eliot lights a precious cigarette, inhaling the serene night air and exhaling smoke into the night. Shuddering deeply as the nicotine hits his system.  He takes another blessed drag, curling his tongue to create smoke rings.  They drift out of the window, dissipating just as they reach the freedom of Peterson’s land.

On the other side of the fence the house is dark. All the curtains drawn against the coming dark. Eliot spares a thought for Samuel Peterson, alone in that house, with no family left to keep a light on for. Eliot has always thought his father’s judgement of the state of his neighbour’s land was cruel. Cruel, but consistent with his established character. As far as Eliot was concerned there was no reason to take it so personally. If Peterson let the peaches rot of the vine and let the corn in his fields grow rampant it was no concern of theirs. 

 

If some part of Eliot hadn’t already been waiting for it he wouldn’t have seen it. The slight movement in corn beyond the Peterson house. Eliot is already moving, slinking out of the window and into the tree, straining his eyes to try and catch it again. There it is again, the ears shivering, too deliberately to convince himself it’s a summer breeze.

Eliot is halfway down when a hoarse growl nearly startles his grip from the branch. It’s a rough unearthly sound, reverberating across the fields and into his chest. Cursing, he reclaims his footing and scrambles down. He’s at the fence before he even thinks it through. The raw howl rends the air again, already growing fainter as Eliot searches for the loose slat he knows is there.

 He pries the board open with shaking fingers. Sliding through the gap with is more difficult now he’s older and taller. He manages with effort, succeeding with a grunt of triumph and a slight tear in his shirt. Eliot ignores the pain as he rushes past the orchard and the darkened homestead.

The cry is still coming from the corn, Eliot enters the dense foliage desperate not to lose the trail. Inside the smell of rotting leaves clings, the air heavy with a spoiled sweetness. The moonlight barely permeates, Eliot forced to rely on his hearing as he blunders onwards.

 

He’s running towards where he thinks he last heard the sound when a growl has his stumbling in a new direction. Accustomed to the closeness of the roots, he trips as the thick steams give way. Eliot falls, knocking the air of his lungs.

The ears have been flattened into an artificial clearing. This close to the ground Eliot can see how neatly the field floor has been squashed. Around him other circles of trodden corn are visible. Perfect circles in no discernible pattern. Eliot remembers the grainy aerial photos from near Howpoint that Margo had found. The inexplicable concentric circles, as if made by machines of unknown origin. Crop Circles.   

The truth of what he’s seeing barely has time to dawn before Eliot’s ducking as a beam of light swings overhead, illuminating the windows of the house. In the dazzle, Eliot is able to make out what was hidden in the darkness, a hunched figure. It’s there for the second it takes Eliot to register its heavy breathing before it dives into the safety of the corn.

“Hey!” Eliot shouts, stumbling to his feet. The braying hits a higher pitch and the retreating rustling gets faster as Eliot dives after it. He’s running blind, ears straining for any sound. Eliot isn’t sure what direction he’s heading, relying on legs to keep up with his quarry.

 A piecing whistle echoes across the shadowy terrain. To his left, Eliot hears a deep bark. Gratified to hear it so close, Eliot launches himself to the side crashing into something solid.

 

The target gives a high-pitched squeak as they roll in the dirt. In his panic Eliot can only make out a mass of green. Eliot grunts as an elbow hits him in the chin, stunning him for a second.

 On instinct he throws his hand out. The desperation to push away his attacker makes his hands spasm.  His terror burns along his nerves, leaving his outstretched fingers tingling. Eliot recognises the sensation in the heartbeat before the figure is thrown to the ground, the power flinging them into the thick foliage.

Eliot barely has a time for the horror of what he’s done to sink in before something slams into his chest. His head smacks into the dirt as the violent weight slams the air out of his lungs. Hot rage and sharp teeth snap inches from Eliot’s face. In the dark Eliot can make out a dark muzzle scant inches from tearing his own venerable flesh. 

“Stop, Stop,” Someone begs. For a second Eliot thinks its own voice, the fear turning the cries to a higher pitch. But it is coming from within the corn.    

The creature pauses but does not remove itself from Eliot. His vision remains blocked by its persistent bulk, Eliot can only just about make out the blur of green lurching over to them. He stares as pale hands emerges from the mass, tugging a long hood back.

It’s a young woman, the wide eyes in her delicate face widened in shock. Released from her cloak, her hair cascades around her shoulders, brown and shaggy.

 Eliot throws himself to his feet, taking the reprieve from the sharp teeth to back away from the two. He keeps his eyes locked on the creature that attacked him. In the gloom it’s revealed to be dog. A dog with familiar tan fur and long ears. 

 “It’s okay.” The woman promises, reaching out a beseeching hand towards him. From this angle Eliot can just about make her out, the green of her cloak cloaking into the vegetation. She scrambles in the dirt and retrieving the torch she’d dropped in the scuffle, relighting it. In the thin beam of light Eliot can see her clearer.

 

She makes a strange archaic figure. The thick wool of her cloak the intricate laces holding her breaches together, the tufts of fur on her boots. She looks like she should be dancing in a fairy wood and not a field in Indiana 

“Well shit,” says a new voice. The words are mumbled, as if the speaker is having to enunciate the words through an uncooperative mouth. Eliot looks around for the speaker.

 The dog stares up at him with a very human expression of frustration.  “There goes our first impression.” says the dog in clear unmistakable English.

 Another piercing whistle breaks the moment and Eliot seizes the confusion and runs. He blunders towards it not caring what is on the other side only that he gets away from what he just witnessed. What he just did.

 This familiar sickness in his stomach, following with the memory of red blood and blue lights. He didn’t kill this time, Eliot insists to himself as he races into the dark, convinced he can still hear voices behind him.

 It’s a small comfort. Once could have been a mistake, a coincidental fluke of nature. But twice, twice is a pattern.

 

By luck he emerges out of the corn field, back where he started. In the reaching crowns of fruit and foliage of the orchard. The sight of the full trees in the unearthly light is a relief after the oppressive darkness. The Light is shining up at the windows of the house, already growing faint. Eliot ruses towards it, desperate to see if the mysterious figure from last night will appear.

 It takes the last of his energy to duck through the trees and avoiding tree roots. He feels his sneakers destroy the decaying discarded peaches under his pounding feet. Eliot is still thinking of the pair, convinced he can still hear their voices. In the second it takes for him to risk a look behind his shoulder he slams into something soft and human.

 They swear loudly as they drop to the ground, scrambling in on their hands and knees. The last of The Light has gone out, leaving only the light of the moon to reveal a slim body covered in a familiar dark orange jumper.

“Quentin Coldwater?” Eliot asks.

 “Huh,” Quentin blinks up at him, his eyes, naked without his spectacles, squinting as he tries to make out his unwitting attacker. His eyes look even more expressive without the thick layer of glass separating them. “Shit my glasses.”

 He continues to fumble along the ground, patting the dirt as he mutters to himself, “I can’t see without my glasses.”

 With a pain of guilt, Eliot joins him in scouring the area. His unimpaired eyes spot the familiar frames against a tree where they’d been flung across the orchard floor in the impact.  Retrieving them, Eliot wipes away the dirt and gets Quentin attention with a breathless hand on his shoulder.

 The other boy tenses slightly at the unanticipated touch. The wool of his sweater is soft under Eliot’s fingers and he can’t help sinking his fingers into the warmth. He unfolds the hinges and places them to Quentin’s face, failing to keep his touch professional as he lingers at the shell of Quentin’s ear.

 He’s so close, that Eliot can see the instant Quentin’s confusion becomes recognition. The hot blush would be gratifying if Eliot wasn’t desperately trying to stop his face from doing the exact same thing.

 “Hey.” Quentin murmurs, averting his eyes from Eliot’s. The motion turning his face into Eliot’s palm. 

 “Hey.” Eliot resettles the frames more securely on Quentin’s face. His hair has fully escaped from the morning’s hair tie. The locks falling around his slack face and tickling the sensitive skin of Eliot’s wrist.  Quentin closes his eyes, as Eliot tucks a loose strand behind his ear.

 

His eyes fly open as the trees behind them start to violently rustle. Eliot’s pursuers have quickly caught up to him. Too quickly. Quentin is only able to give an aborted shout of warning before woman and dog trip over them.

The dog rights himself first, scratching an ear with his paw. “Ouch.”

 They all look up as Margo storms around the side of the house. She fixes each one with a thoroughly unimpressed glare. Under his hand, Eliot feels Quentin shrink under scrutiny. Someone whimpers. It wasn’t the dog.

 “What part of be cool….” Margo starts. “Shit.”

 The blare of sirens startles them into action. Margo grabs the women in green’s hand, pulling her to her feet with a soft hand on the small of her back.

 “Margo, what is...?” Eliot starts to his own feet, untangling his limbs from Quentin’s.

 “Not here.” Margo interrupts, her face stony. “We need somewhere quiet to talk.”

 The red and blue lights splash her face. The harsh illumination picks out the hint of fear hidden in her eyes.

 Eliot looks at them; Margo her hair coming free from its hairband, Quentin a smudge of dirt on his cheek, the women still holding her arm stiffly to her chest and the talking dog.

 He catches Margo’s eye and nods, “Come with me.”


	4. like zoinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo makes some home improvements, Fen tells a tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains some recreational and medicinal use of weed

Eliot leads the quartet through the gap in the fence. He won’t draw an easy breath until the flashing lights are well behind them. From over his shoulder he can hear Mr Peterson’s quavering voice raised in hysterical oration of the ghostly lights at his window. The odd grunt of amusement is the only contribution from his tax dollars at work. The Whiteland PD clearly hadn’t wanted to come all the way out of town on a wild UFO chase.

Part of Eliot wants to go back and help, but his own desire for answers is stronger. His presence would only add questions anyway. Eliot finds the gap in the fence easier this time, the tiny tear of fabric still pinned on a splinter. The dog, the talking dog Eliot recalls again, negotiates the gap without assistance and waits on the other side. Like Eliot, his ears are pricked up for danger.

The woman in green smiles up at him as he holds the panel open for her to squeeze through. She’s no longer clutching her arm, which seems to have soothed some of Margo’s bristling, but not Eliot’s guilt.

“Thanks.” She says cheerfully. She pulls her backpack through first, the mysterious contents clanking slightly, “I’m Fen.”

“Oh, Eliot.” he introduces, bemused as she grabs his hand to pull herself upright. The contact is proprietary in an innocent sort of way that Eliot can’t understand let alone be angry about. Fen’s close enough that he can inhale her scent. Despite a life spent in agricultural toil, Eliot’s mind draws a blank in categorising her fragrance. The generic ‘outdoorsy’ smell encompassing something herbal, fresh and spicy that he can’t identify.

Eliot tries not to tense as she leans against him. There are two spots of colour on Fen’s cheeks and she seems a little breathless.

Margo shoots Eliot an irritated look that he can’t quiet decipher. She shoots through the fence and pulls Fen to her own side.

“You alright?” Margo snaps at Fen. Her tone his harsh but Eliot can see the way her fingers just come short of cradling the small of the other girls back.

Fen presses her hand to her chest and takes a couple of shallow breaths. Now he’s not concentrating on a way to tell this stranger his eyes already belong to another Eliot can see how short of breath she is. The flush of her cheeks not due to infatuation but respiration.

“I’ll be fine.” She promises, wincing slightly.

“I didn’t mean to…” Eliot starts to apologise but Margo cuts him off with a roll of her eyes.

“We’ll explain just… we need to get out of the open.”

  
Eliot leads them to the hayloft. He doesn’t relish the idea of letting others into his sanctuary but it’s the only place he has. The problems with trying to get a giant dog up a tree only occur to him once they get to the the barn.

When he voices this, the dog only snorts and climbs up the branches with terrifying nimbleness, nosing the window open with his muzzle and leaping in. Fen also shimmies up the tree with ease, her troubled breathing not impeding her progress. Margo follows more sedately leaving Eliot and Quentin standing at the base of the tree.

“Do you need help.” Eliot asks.

Quentin shakes his head, “I’ve never climbed a tree before.”

Eliot tries not to laugh at the admission, “I got you.” He promises. “I won’t let you fall.”

He can see the half joking admission already forming in Quentin’s mind. Already falling for you.

He gets down on one knee and offers Quentin a boost with a flutter of eyelashes. It has the desired effect and Quentin laughs, the impulse lost.

Eliot rewards his restraint with some ogling of Quentin’s ass. He’s making his way up the tree with none of the skill and style of his friends, but the display is very much more to Eliot taste. He makes sure to school his expression into something a little less lascivious when Quentin looks back down at him, his own face lit up with delight. By the time he reaches the top Margo and Fen are already reaching out to him, ready to pull him inside.

Quentin returns the favour once he get to the top, sliding his warm palm against Eliot’s. The platform of the hayloft seems a lot smaller with four nearly grown adults and a dog inside. With so many others there, Eliot’s refuge looks shabby and a little dangerous. He’s never been bothered by the creaking floorboards and the lack of railings, but now it’s all he can think about.

“Careful,” he warns Fen as she precariously leans out to light the lantern. She laughs and waves away his concern. She’s found a nail to hang her cloak on, revelling a disappointingly normal cotton T-shirt. The transfer stretched across her chest of a cartoon rabbit in a top hat.   
Margo is moving the hale bales around into a rudimentary sitting area around the light. She’s dropped her bulging satchel in the middle by Fen’s backpack, making sure to keep the green wool off the dusty floor.   
Quentin is looking at the abandoned junk under the platform. Eliot wants to go over and warn him too, but unlike Fen he is keeping well away from the edge.  
  
Margo claps lightly, and the others heed the signal to come together. Quentin smiles as Eliot offer the other half of his haybale. The dog flops by Fen’s feet. Margo keeps standing, arms crossed over her chest.

“Where do you want to start?” Margo asks Eliot.

Eliot blinks, where the hell does he start? “Who the hell are you people?” he settles on.

“This is Margo,” Fen says, “Quentin, Josh.” She points to the dog.

“Hey dude.” Josh say, batting a wisp of hay with his paw.

“And I’m, well, I told you, I’m Fen, We…” She breaks off with a hacking cough.

“Sorry.” she apologises between gasping for air. Eliot can only sit as the others surge around her. Margo is rummaging in Fen’s backpack and pulls out a small wooden chest. In the lamplight the copper banding around it shines iridescent. Reaching inside Margo retrieves a tightly rolled joint and passes it to Fen.

“Is it alright?” She asks the host. Eliot nods.

“Josh can you…” Margo asks but he’s already heading to the window.

“I know, I know” he grumbles. Using his muzzle, he props the window ajar. Quentin uses his opposable thumbs and uses the catch to leave the window open a crack. He also finds a the broken plant pot Eliot has been using as an ashtray and puts it next to Fen. They move together harmoniously, leaving Eliot to sit on his haybale nonplussed and a little left out.

Margo pats her pockets before turning to Eliot, “Do you have a light?”

Eliot retrieves his lighter and passes it over. He holds the flame steady as Fen lights the end, inhaling deeply.

“Thanks.” She croaks, her voice still raspy for the coughing. “I need to remember to do this or I get really bad.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” Eliot says. He’s a social outcast but his money’s as good as anyone’s. No one sells weed in a small town selectively.

“No.” Fen insists, exhaling shakily, “It really is bad. I don’t know what’s missing from the air here but I’m still getting headaches and light headed after so long away from home.”

“And where’s home?” Eliot asks.

“Fillory.” Quentin looks so excited that for a second Eliot believes him. For a second.

“No.”

“It’s true.” Fen promises. “I’m from Fillory. I’m it’s, well I was, It’s High King.”

“No, In the books it’s those British kids.” Eliot insists, dimly remembering being ten and staying up late to devour The Secret Sea under his blanket. “The Watkins?”

“Chatwins.” Quentin corrects quickly. It’s not at all charming. The frustrated little moue sticking out his full bottom lip. Eliot wants to bit it, you know, for judging him. That’ll teach him.

Eliot raises his hands in mock surrender, “Okay Okay, The Chatwins. Is that what your supposed to be?” He asks, motioning to the Ren-fair reject smoking a joint in his barn, “You don’t look like a British school girl.”

“Thank you?” Fen says slowly, looking to Margo as if checking with a higher power that her reaction is correct. “But I was only acting High King, technically. The Chatwins haven’t been in Fillory for a hundred years.”

She pulls Margo’s hand, patting the seat next to her. When Margo looks like she’ll resist, Fen gives a pathetic little cough. She smirks into her palm when Margo relents. “Back then a child of Earth made a deal with my grandfather, a master knifemaker. If he made a blade to kill The Beast, they would give my family royal power.”

Fen shrugs, “Well that was a century ago. My father raised me so that when they did return I’d be ready to take my place as wife to the High King.”

Fuck it, Eliot thinks, the things he would do for cute guys. “What Beast?” He asks, feeling himself being drawn into the story despite himself.

“The Beast that has been destroying Fillory for decades.” Fen explains. She takes in Eliot’s incredulous expression and passes him the joint. Her breathing must be back to normal if the loosing of Margo’s knuckles is any indication.

“Everyone one else was happy to just wait around for Kings and Queens to arrive and solve the problem. But what’s the point of waiting around to help rule if there’s nothing left to rule.”

Unseen by Fen, Margo’s face has softened as she takes in the determination on the other woman’s face. Next to him, Quentin is near vibrating with excitement, his face alight with the story.

Eliot takes a drag and tries not to cough. It’s been a while since he’s had the chance to smoke, not exactly invited to any of the parties that aren’t just him his right hand and a few stolen beers. “So you’re the acting High King until the ‘real’ one arrives.”

Fen nods, “Yeah. Things were going okay until…” she pauses, biting her lip. Josh lifts his head from the floor and makes a growls reasuringly.

  
“I screwed up,” She sighs, “I made a deal… with the fairies.”

“Fairies,” Eliot repeates, of course there are fairies. He offers the joint to Quentin. He gives an embarrassed little shrug and takes the joint from Eliot’s slack fingers. He immediately passes it into the waiting hand Margo already has outstretched. She taps the inside of Quentin’s wrist, getting a nod in reply to her silent question.

Like Quentin, Fen mistakes Eliot’s tone for judgement, “I was so stupid, I know. But I was desperate. They would keep The Beast contained and in exchange I would give them a seat on the royal council”

Margo only took a quick puff before placing the joint back into Fen’s hand, lingering with a supportive squeeze as she did so.

“It was bad. The court was infiltrated with them. Every decision I made manipulated and twisted. The people never really wanted me on the throne and this was the excuse they needed to exile me.”

“So that’s why you’re here?” Eliot leans over to crack the window open wider, “On Earth?”

“No. I asked to go to Earth.” Fen says, looking embarrassed, “Umbers Balls! Sorry I’m telling this in the wrong order.”

She reaches for the chest on Margo lap and opens it up. The dime store bags and rolling papers she pushes aside making a small pile on the floor. A collection of leaflets and tourist tchotchkes joins them. Finally, Fen finds what she’s looking for; three variously sized scraps of paper.

“Where’s the other one?” Fen turns to Margo, “I gave it to you.”

Margo motions to her own bag, “I looked, it’s not in there Bunny.”

Eliot leans close to Quentin and mouths “Bunny?”

Quentin shrugs, flushing slightly at the closeness, “You get used to it,” he says softly. “They’re at that neither of them will admit they like the other stage.”

“How annoying.” Eliot smirks reaching forward to pull a loose strand of hay from Quentin’s hair.

From the floor, Josh snorts.

The squabbling is still going. Worried his father will hear half an acre away, Eliot reaches into his pocket and waves the fabric at the women, “This is yours then?”

Fen’s eyes widen with recognition hastily grabbing label from Eliot. She distractedly smooths at the non-existent creases Eliot might have made.

When she’s satisfied, Fen continues, “On the night of my coronation the Grimalkin Prophetess came to me.”

“The what?”

Quentin huffs at Eliot’s side, “She’s in the books, don’t you remember?”

“I’m not still in grade school, so no.” Eliot replies. His flippant tone causes something to shutter in Quentin’s expression. He carries on explaining, clearly not expecting an apology, despite the one that is already forming against Eliot’s tongue.

“Well in Book 2, The Chatwins are trying to work out what Jane’s dreams about the Watcher Woman mean. They try and find the Grimalkin Prophetess but, in the process, they discover the answers they were seeking all along.”

He pauses only to draw breath, clearly expecting someone to jump in to stop him, “It’s a really interesting early example of the children already having the answers to their problems all along. Especially for Rupert, whose wrestling with what it means to be a good High King and….”

“Q, dude.” Josh raises his head from the floor. “I’m begging you.”

It’s never not going to be weird to hear a human voice come out of a dog. Noticing Eliot looking Josh stares back, sticking his doggy tongue out. Fen giggles. Quentin reaches behind him and gives his own furry head scratch in apology.

“Can I tell my story now.” Fen asks, clearly a little put out.

“Sorry.”

“So, The Grimalkin Prophetess had come to give me my Birthright Box. She said when the time is right I would have to use the contents wisely.”

She passes the items to Eliot. They are decidedly unimpressive. The sack label Eliot had already seen, slightly grubbier from having been in his pocket all day. There is a leaflet for a dog sanctuary in New York. Bright pictures of ecstatic children and mutts on both sides as well as a brief blurb about an adoption day. There is a business card for a travelling salesman out in LA, Richard Hanson. The last is a flimsy hospital bracelet, already ripped in the middle of a name. Eliot already knows who it belongs to from the way Quentin stiffens at his side.

He uses the motion of leaning forward to pass the items back to Fen, to brush a shoulder against Quentin’s. It settles something in his chest as the other boy, nudges him back.

“So that… junk was in your box?” Eliot asks.

Fen nods, ashing the last of the joint into the broken plant pot. “I wasn’t excited by it either. Wasn’t exactly the portent that my rule would be the strong and prosperous one I was looking for.”

“So I kind of forgot about it but it was one of the only items that they let me take from Whitespire.” Fen sighs. She’s trying to be nonchalant, but Eliot can still see the pain in her eyes. “I didn’t know what to do with myself. I could stay in Fillory but the idea of going anywhere else was, well... it wasn’t an option. So, I stuck around in the Flying Forest...”

“Never not going to be cool.” Quentin whispers. Margo glares at him. He holds up a hand in apology, “Sorry not the point, I know.”

“So, I stayed in the forest for a bit. Until I heard the White Lady.” She pauses to make sure Quentin didn’t want to interject again. Margo smirks, her tongue sticking out from her teeth. Eliot is beginning to recognize that expression as pure delight at her friend’s dumbassery.

“The White Lady was spotted in the grove. So, I caught her and when she asked me what my wish was… I dunno. I hadn’t really thought that far.” Fen explains. “I thought well, this is supposed to be my Birthright, all this stuff. So I asked her send me here.”

Fen holds up the leaflet, indicating the address written at the bottom, “This led me to Josh.”

Eliot turns to the dog, “And you’re, what? A magic fairy dog, a werewolf, what?”

“Cursed.” Josh attempts to shrug, his canine shoulders not quite up to the task, “There was a Fairy, some rare Ananas Noire seeds, a small fire and a disagreement with the police and before I know it I’m in Bonkers for Yonkers, Dog Rescue and Veterinary Centre.”

He grins a big doggy grin at Fen, “Fen found me and got me out. I’m a few years off from going to Brakebills so I wasn’t exactly able to magic my way out.”

Eliot opens his mouth to ask but Margo beats him to it, “Magician Graduate school, we probably would have met there if destiny hadn’t shoved its dick up our assess.”

“I’m not a….” Eliot insists, the memory of overwhelming power surging through his fingers making his heart beat rabbit fast.

“Oh please.” Margo sniffs, “You threw Fen halfway across the field just now. You’re among fellow ‘magicians’ now, no need to be shy.”

“Apart from me.” Fen admits ruefully.

“You are magical though,” Josh insists faithfully.

“Yeah,” Fen sighs and turns to explain to Eliot, “but the Earth atmosphere doesn’t just make my breathing hard it limits my abilities. I’m only working at like, 1% power right now.”

“What can you do?” Eliot asks. It’s happened without him noticing, he’s gone from close to running and leaving them to the mercy of the Whiteland PD to fully invested in the next insane thing out of Fen’s mouth.

Fen comes over bashful at Eliot’s interest, “It’s nothing, not like what Margo can do.”

“She can see the future, in her dreams.” Margo clarifies with an eye roll, clearly used to hyping her High King.

“It doesn’t work here though.” Fen complains, “I’m just sensitive to anything magical in the vicinity, Josh is the same.”

Josh nods, “Animal intuition.”

“It’s hardly useful though.” Fen slides off the hay bale to join Josh on the floor, “Anytime anything magical appears it makes my breathing worse.”

She lifts her head to look at Q, “What did you call it Quentin, an anxiety proximity alarm?”

“Like her Flight or Fight response gets triggered.” Quentin explains.

“That’s…huh,” yeah that does sound maddening. “What about you?” He asks Quentin, “You’re a… Magician too?”

Quentin reddens, “Card tricks.” He mutters looking at Margo beseechingly. Margo takes pity on him and strides over to the edge of the platform. Eliot watches as she stretches out a hand, wiggling her fingers aimlessly in the direction of the floor.

“It doesn’t always work,” she caveats, squinting unto the darkness. There’s a loud crack and sometime sails into the air at speed. Margo gives an undignified squeak as she ducks just in time for something to slam into the wall inches where her head had been.

Eliot really hopes his mouth isn’t hanging open, as he stares at an Axe embedded in the wood. It’s still vibrating with the force it was flung at. “Fucking hell.”

He leaps up to examine it. The blunt edge of the tool is so far lodged into the side of the loft Eliot can only see a sliver of rusting metal.

“So that’s why you’re here?” He asks, touching the blade, it’s still slightly warm, “Because of magic?”

“The other places my Birthright box sent me I found strange magical occurrences,” Fen says, “Magical creature trading in the same place where Josh was imprisoned, malicious land deal that Margo’s father was caught up in. Hex witches in the hospital Quentin was at.”

Quentin averts his eyes as Eliot looks back, taking his glasses off and studiously cleaning the lenses.

“So, the aliens at the Peterson place, It’s part of a pattern.” Eliot realises, “The sack label in your box lead you to me because of it.”

“Yes.” Fen nods, crossing the room to grab his hands in hers, quivering as hard as the Axe handle, “And because…”

She pauses as something over her shoulder arrests her attention. In the corner of his eye Eliot sees Margo motioning a hand violently across her neck. Quentin still won’t look at him, his shoulder’s now even more downcast.

“No other reason.” Fen lies brightly. From the floor, Josh attempts to facepalm with uncooperative paws.

“It’s getting late.” Margo changes the subject with confidence not subtlety. “Can we stay here for the night. We should talk to Samuel Peterson in the morning and check out the field in the daylight, see what we missed.”

Eliot nods. “My father, he’s got records of all the farms in the area, maybe there might be something in that.”

“You’re going to help us.” Fen squeals in delight, throwing her arms around Eliot’s shoulders. Quentin looks up and catches Eliot’s confused expression with a rueful smile.

“Sure.” He promises, smiling back at Quentin, “Count me in.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to stay motivated with this fic. I'm loving writing it but the finale still has me down.   
> Margo has ended up being alot softer than planned. I really love the season 1 interactions she has with Alice and that has influenced how she talks to Fen. IDK let me know what you think.


	5. would you do it for a snack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo is not a happy camper, Eliot is a cunning linguist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translation in end notes:

Eliot holds the takeaway bag clenched between his teeth. As he makes his way up the tree it rhythmically whacks against his chest.  His progress is slow going as he tries not to drop the four cups of coffee. He has the flimsy cardboard holder cradled in the corner of his arm.

His muscles are already straining from the pre-sunrise work his father had put him too. He’d made good on his promise at dinner, sending Eliot out to the back fields to the planting while he sat in the kitchen and nursed a hangover. Eliot manages to catch his foot from slipping, his movement impaired by the water bottle jammed into the pocket of his jeans.

He’d driven an extra mile from the McDonalds to buy it, only occurring to him that Josh probably wouldn’t have caffeine when he was already halfway back to the farm. What was the physiological situation with a human cursed into a dog, anyway? Did he have a dog’s brain with a human’s conscience or a full human brain. Where there any other organs that stayed the same. It just raises a lot of questions that someone who only just found out magic is real is not qualified to answer.

 Reaching the top of the tree, Eliot rests his cargo onto a branch and knocks on the glass. After a second of precarious balance, Quentin’s face appears in the window. His hair is loose, sleep mussed tresses brushing his bare shoulders. Since Eliot had been gone he’d changed into a creased white vest. He raises the edge of the fabric to polish his glasses absently, revealing a sliver of smooth skin.

 Eliot can see his own reflected face, disgustingly soft and fond. Quentin blinks at him, or at least the human shaped blob he can make out. Eliot schools his expression as Quentin fumbles his glasses back on.

 

 “Hey.” He whispers. Eliot passes breakfast through first. It’s satisfying to see how Quentin’s face lights up at the sight of the travel cups.   

“You brought breakfast? You’re amazing.”

Eliot climbs through, making sure not to wake the others. Margo’s mess of hair is just about visible under a pile of blankets. Fen has draped herself across her back, her low snores discernible from the other side of the room. Josh is curled up comma shaped on a bale of hay. Every so often his back leg gives a little twitch in a dream chase.

“I know,” Eliot agrees, taking a swig from his own coffee, “I’m just that great.”

They settle back against the window sill, companionably shoulder to shoulder in the late light of morning. Quentin ripping apart a muffin to eat in small neat pieces. By his knee is a book Eliot recognises from his pile of Library rescues. He finds he doesn’t mind that Quentin has gone through is stuff as much as he thought he should.

 “What’re you reading?” he asks.   

“Sorry, most of my books are back in the van and Margo only grabbed us clothes. I saw your collection.” He lifts the book, revealing it’s cover. The familiar floral dust jacket of Maurice. Trust Quentin to find the one book he’s actually read. More than once.

“It’s impressive. Have you read all of them?” Quentin inquires. Eliot looks for the judgement in the statement, but it isn’t there. Quentin is just the sort of person that reads books cover to cover. The encyclopaedic knowledge he’d displayed last night makes a lot of sense now.

“Oh yeah.” Eliot lies with a confident smirk.

Quentin rolls his eyes through the obvious bullshit, “Including Ulyssess.”

“Definitely.” Eliot say breezily biting the last section of muffin from between Quentin’s fingers.  “Him on his ship fighting cyclopes. Great stuff.”

Quentin has to muffle his snort of laughter into his fist, biting his knuckle to keep his mirth from waking the others.

“No one’s ever read that book.” Eliot says confidently. “And if they say they have they’re lying.”  

Quentin shrugs, “I’ve never read it.” He admits.

“Not enough magical kings and talking animals for you.” Eliot shifts to get more comfortable against the hard wood. Quentin turns onto his side, moving closer into Eliot’s space. His hair brushes Eliot’s shoulder. The phantom sensation leaving a trail of goose bumps under his polo shirt.

“Mock me all you like El, but it all turned out to be real.” Quentin smiles up at him guilelessly. This close, Eliot can see the spark of wonder in his eyes, the disbelief that it all came to something after all.

“Yeah you really backed the right YA fantasy world horse there.”

“I like to think of it as sinking all my skill points into intelligence modifier for a history proficiency.” Quentin asserts, unabashedly staring at Eliot as if daring him to beat him up and take his lunch money.

“If you don’t stop talking dirty to me Coldwater,” Eliot purrs, gratified by the dilation of Quentin pupils, “I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

Quentin shrugs not unsatisfied to have his bluff called. A loud snort interrupts the moment as Fen, gives an almighty snore and snuggles closer to the blanket lump. Margo’s gives only a sleepy moan in reply.

“It’s all real. She’s real, a real actual King.” Eliot turns to Quentin to marvel, “What’s that like?”

Quentin expression shutters, turning his face away, “You’re interested, in Fen?”

Nonplussed Eliot shrugs, “Well, Yeah, that’s bona fide royalty sleeping in my hayloft, of course I’m interested.”

Quentin nods, but the gesture is distant. Eliot tries to think what caused it so he can never ever do it again “She’s sweet but really fierce… I don’t know she’s Fen.”

“Helpful.” Eliot comments, receiving a frustrated huff from Quentin.

“No,” he sighs, “it's hard to describe, she just looks at things differently from anyone else. She’s from another world, an actual other world, with different rules and expectations. It’s hard to remember that sometimes.”

Quentin marshals his thoughts and continues, “Like she can split an apple off your head at fifty paces but will get confused why people don’t like you throwing sharp knives in Wholefoods”

Quentin shrugs, “Even I don’t get where she’s coming from most of the time and I spent my whole life trying to get to that place. She’ll really passionate about Fillory but it’s not how I care about it. It’s her duty to care, her life's work.”

 

Eliot considers the stranger in a new light. Perhaps he got the whole weight of familial expectation, how it can subsume your identity. A hand-me-down inherited from an older age that fit too tight across the chest. The simpler time it originated from anything but.

“This quest that we’re on,” Quentin murmurs. His voice drops and they move together in closer confidence, “it’s exciting and strange and a little scary but for Fen it’s life or death. She’s willing to put up with the air in this world hurting her if it means she’ll be able to find her High King.”

 _This mythical High King better be worth it_ , Eliot thinks. He imagines some Enid Blyton looking fucker, pasty and entitled. What sort of colonial fangirl bullshit was that. Having the governance of a whole world based on the whims of children from another place. _I bet he’ll have bad teeth too_.  

Eliot keeps that kind of observation to himself. Postmodern critical evaluation of the Fillory series seems the sort of thing that might strain this tentative tender moment he has with Quentin. Since they’ve been talking Quentin’s hand has gravitated to Eliot’s knee. Whether to keep his balance or to be in closer proximity so their talking won’t wake the others or just drawn inexorably into Eliot’s orbit, he’s not above taking advantage of good luck.    

“How would you even start looking for something like that?” Eliot asks instead, the moment too fragile for him to risk reciprocation, despite his own fingers flexing at his side. They’re tingling slightly, like the magic that was inside of him all along is fizzing along his nerves, looking for a release.  

Quentin looks equally overwhelmed, but by the idea of the missing king. “Searching for weird occurrences, finding other magic users, Looking through family histories of people that may been to Fillory.”

“Honestly.” he confides. “I think Fen just thought she’d know him when she saw him.”

“That seems vague and non-actionable.”

Quentin shrugs helplessly, the gleam of something wistful in his eyes, “I thought so too. But I’m thinking maybe Fen’s right.”

He stares up at Eliot, unaware his fingers tightening their grip, subconsciously unwilling to give him up. “Perhaps you’ll just be able to look at them and feel the royalty in the way they speak or hold their head or just something that's uniquely them that resonates in you.”

_Never mind Fen I think i have to worry about Quentin falling for this asshole._

“In their blood there’ll be something that makes you want to follow them. That they’ll represent something good and true I can believe in.”

Eliot scratches his jaw, embarrassed by the raw emotion in Quentin’s breathy undertow, “I don’t know. I don’t think destiny's ever that tidy.”

Quentin comes back to himself with a rueful smile, “It brought us together, that’s worth something, right?”

 

Eliot looks around the room at this ragtag questing party. The blankets, bags and empty crisp packets that make his solitary sanctuary a brighter not so lonely place. The idea that they will leave and take that with them is galling. He mind wanders to his SUNY Purchase letter, New York is a good as place as any to start a new life. Maybe Quentin would feel the same way. “Yeah, I guess there is something in that”

From outside, Eliot hears bird song. The reminder of the outside world reminds him of the job they’re here to do, “So, plan of attack, hit me Coldwater.”

“We talked a bit last night while Margo was getting the van.” Quentin explains, “Fen and Josh will go and check out the fields next door, see they can sense anything. We need to interview Mr Peterson, see if he knows what's causing this. Do you really think there might be clues in your father’s paperwork?”  

Eliot considers. His father kept meticulous notes of everything; crop yield, soil analysis, rainfall, not just of his own land but those surrounding the property. Eliot dimly remembers his grandfather was the same, a terrifying stooped grey figure that had no time for the chaotic exuberance of children. All the family papers are in the attic and from an early age the Waugh brothers knew what the punishment would be for playing up there. Even now as an adult the fear lingers. He’s pathetically grateful he’s not alone.

“Who knows, I’m sure you’ll be able to ferret out some clues.” he nudges Quentin’s shoulder conspiratorially, hoping for another blush.

He’s not disappointed. “Me?”

“Yeah, I thought you and me…” Eliot starts through the sinking feeling in his stomach, “If you don’t want to.”

“But I thought maybe you’d want Fen or Margo.”

Eliot tries not to let his confusion or hurt show. Quentin seems overly preoccupied on the Acting High King. _Perhaps he has a crush on her_ , Eliot thinks with a sinking heart. “I could but I thought, You and me?”

“No, No, I mean yes.” Quentin says hastily,  “Sorry Yes. I’d like that.”

Eliot smiles, “Okay.”

Quentin look around for a change of topic, “It’s weird thinking of you living here.” He motions encompassing the drab world outside of the cosy warmth of the barn.

“Didn’t get these muscles lifting books.” Eliot flexes said limbs to Quentin’s stifled appreciation.

“It’s really hard to imagine you on a tractor or feeding chickens.” Quentin muses, “You seem more exotic to me than Fen.”

“How _do_ you imagine me?” Eliot asks softly. Quentin bites his lip, the full flesh colouring alluringly.  

 “In a castle,” Quentin answers apparently without thinking. He corrects quickly, “I mean a modern Italian sort of castle with a tiny cup of coffee and a warm breeze over the veranda.”

“Mmmm,” Eliot can imagine it, _has_ imagined it. Europe always seemed like a fantastical imaginary world to him growing up, as Fillory must have seemed to Quentin. Another fantastical reality so far away. But Quentin had found a way to be part of his fantasy while Eliot was still struggling to do the same.  

“Lo adoro.” Eliot croons. He _knows_ it sounds good, hours watching VHS tapes of Roman Holiday and Italian for Beginners well spent. His Italian is flawless if not anymore in depth that basic phrases and how to ask for directions.   

“See, I can picture it now. Your Italian is flawless.” Quentin enthuses.

“Grazie.” Eliot preens, “Dov'è la gelateria per favore?”

Quentin doesn’t try to stop his laughter this time and Eliot loves it, equally unwilling to stop himself from joining in. In the bubble of shared happiness and shear weirdness of their world, Eliot is brave. He rests his hand on Quentin’s.

 

“Oh gross.”

Margo’s face has emerged from the nest of blankets. There’s a long red sleep crease across one cheek. The other is covered by the rats-nest of dishevelled hair, sticking out at all angles. Margo’s uncovered eye squints at both of them with all the annoyance her fuzzy brain can muster. 

“Ahh, Bella Bambina.” Eliot proclaims. This sets Quentin off again, nearly sobbing with laughter at the daggers Margo is eyeing Eliot with. Fen gives a sad little snuffle and rolls closer, wrapping herself over Margo’s warmth. An arm emerges and waves aimlessly in Margo’s face.

“No… Sleep now.”

Margo’s eyes narrow, daring them to say something, “I hate you.” She enunciates. She spots the cups by Eliot’s knee.  “Is that coffee. Maybe I will spare your life.”

She slowly entangles herself. Shaking out the creases in her soft sweatpants and T-shirt. With a clang, the blankets also eject their other contents, The Axe.    

That dampens the mirth slightly, “Why is she sleeping with that?”

Quentin shrugs, clearly a melee weapon as a teddy bear was a normal occurrence, “Fen got it out of the wall for her.”

 

At the sound of her name, Fen comes to the surface blinking at them over Margo’s shoulder, “Hi Eliot.”

Eliot is surprised by the brightness of her greeting, “Hi Fen.  Did you sleep alright?”

“Really well. I’ve missed sleeping on hay, haven’t done that for years.” Fen insists, “Can I ask you something?”

Margo snatches her coffee and muffin from the pile with more force than was strictly needed, still glancing at Eliot suspiciously.

Cowed, Eliot replies carefully, “Sure.”

“How do they get the hay into the big round shape without magic?”

“Oh.” Eliot wasn’t sure what question he was expecting her to ask, probably wasn’t to do with farm husbandry though, “It’s a big rolling machine. It compresses it down, so you can pack in more  

“Oh cute.” Fen says satisfied. She jumps out of the blankets, less sluggishly than Margo who is inhaling caffeine with a single-minded determination. Rummaging in her bags Fen retrieves a foldable dog dish. Her sleep clothes consist solely of a large knee length T-shirt and green fluffy socks. It’s the sort of iconic novelty shirt you never actually see anyone buying at beachside tourist traps. The cheap transfer on the front of a cartoon woman’s torso complete with polka dot Bikini and overly generous proportions.

“Thanks for giving us a hand.” Fen continues blithely. She grabs the water bottle and the last of the coffees. She crosses to Josh and wakes him with a gently shake.  His eyes open with a pitiful whine. Fen smiles and uncaps the lids off the water bottle and the coffee. Josh perks up a little, tail wagging.

“Hopefully. You and Margo will find us a clue in your father’s stuff.” Fen takes a swig of water and starts pouring the lukewarm coffee into the bowl. Josh laps at the coffee with a woof of delight. Eliot really hopes that isn’t the one with the hazelnut creamer.

 

“Eliot and I were going to look.” Quentin offers. His tone certain but he still averts his eyes under Margo scrutiny. Fen sits down next to Josh, sharing an anxious look before engrossing themselves in their breakfast.

Margo put down her cup. From where Quentin is still pressed to his side, Eliot can feel him flinch at the finality of the snap or cardboard on wood, “We talked about this Q.”

“It’s fine.” Quentin insists.

“No, you’re going to talk to Samuel Peterson.” Margo tone brooks no argument. She stands up, 5 foot of regal power, an unmovable object.   

“What happened to my interviewing style being as subtle as ‘a limp dick at the orgy?’.” Quentin quotes, somewhat weakly in the face of Margo’s resolve

 “Well it'll be a good chance to improve it won’t it.” Margo retorts.

They stand off for a few tense seconds. Eliot caught in the middle in a way he doesn’t quite understand. He likes these people, probably harder and quicker than is advisable. But there is something he’s not being told, something important. Eliot pulls away from Quentin.

Quentin accepts Margo’s will. Eliot can feel his eyes staring into the back of his head. It doesn’t matter. It’s not important they’ll get a chance to talk later. It’s fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lo adoro - Love that  
> Grazie. Dov'è la gelateria per favore? - Thank you, Where's the ice cream shop please  
> Bella Bambina - Beautiful girl
> 
> Thank you [Diana924 ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diana924)for correcting my Italian 
> 
> This chapter was intended to include different perspectives of the gang members doing some scooby sleuthing, but the conversation with Q/El got so long it got split into three parts. That's to look forward to in the next chapter?
> 
> comments and kudos go into the empty hole in my heart which i fill with validation.


	6. let’s split up: peaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen puts things into perspective, Quentin is peachy keen

Fen, Josh and Quentin go one way through the fence. Margo and Eliot go the other. Fen lingers at the gap, watching their aesthetically complementary silhouettes pass into the field and into Waugh Farm. _They look cute together_ , Fen realises with a pang. Quentin brushes past her without saying a word. He slips through the gap and tugs his satchel closer to his body. Fen’s natural reaction to seeing Quentin like this would be offer some comfort. That was how their dynamic worked; Josh snips sarcastically, Margo values results more than a sympathetic method, Quentin’s insecurities and fears spiral, and Fen appeases.

Not this time, it mattered too much to waver now. She can feel Josh’s eyes boring into the back of her head. Of all the talking animals Fen had met Josh was a fan of the former part of the description. He wasn’t going to keep in what he wanted to say for long.

“We’ll meet you back at Eliot’s house?” Fen asks the tense line of Quentin’s back. He turns around and manages a terse nod. She wants to say sorry, it’s on the tip of her tongue. But so is the memory of Margo in the restroom of the shop of Whole Foods snapping ‘ _you’re goddamn High King, Stop apologising’._ At the time the words had stung worse than the antiseptic her frightening new friend had used on her wound, but now Fen only remembers the purposefully gentle way Margo had bandaged her hand.  

 

So she watches Quentin knock on Samuel Peterson’s door and follows Josh into the abandoned corn field. They retrace their steps as best they can from the night before, but its nearly impossible. The trampled crops could have been from one of them, the culprit or even the law keepers. They’ve left ribbons of yellow plastic around the ‘crop circles’ as wards, just a few plastic strips already loose and trailing along the ground.

Josh clears his throat with a raspy bark, “So Eliot, huh.”

 Fen sighs and ducks into the clearing, “You heard all that?”

“With these floppy lugs, I’m hearing sparrows shitting in the next county.”

Fen feels the familiar pang of guilt at her friend mentioning his unwelcome furry form. She worries that the others sometimes forget Josh is there, overlooked in a corner but still very much aware of what’s going on. Margo and Quentin weren’t there, didn’t know that without Josh there would be no group.

 

It was Josh who had found her food and shelter despite having neither, having lost everything in the fire. It was Josh that had worked out why earth air was hard for her to breath. It was Josh that bought the van, her beloved Magician Machine.  Quentin called it a Wookie Life Debt and Margo called it co-dependence, But Josh is her best friend forever. That’s what the little matching charms on his collar and her wrist say anyway.  

“I know you think I’m being stupid.” Fen offers. Josh raises his head from the ground he was scenting and fixes her with an abundantly unimpressed look.

“Margo Hanson, Fen.” He enunciates through his uncooperative canine jowls, “Margo ‘Goddess of All She Surveys’ Hanson. Do you know what I would do to her if I had opposable thumbs?”

Fen pauses, hoping his next words will be chosen carefully.

“Nothing,” Josh says with perfect comedic timing, “Because there is no way she’d let _me_ get that close. Unlike you, who she is head over heels for.”

Fen scoffs to cover up the lurch in her chest, “I wouldn’t go that far. We’re friends she looks out for me.”

 

And she did. In those early days on the road nothing really fit right. They only had a list of impossible aims; Get Fen back to Fillory, Get Josh back to his real body, get the High King. Even with a seasoned questing party that was a tall order. But with Josh still struggling to make himself understood, Quentin prickly and reserved in turn and Fen unable to understand a world where even the air was hurting her, it all seemed impossible.

Fen has no idea why Margo came with them. Left her high glass tower in the City of Angels for a ‘rusty death trap’ to follow literal scraps of information. But she did.

Margo had the wrong temperament for a mission of mercy. She grilled victims and suspects alike and threw her fists and spark of magic about indiscriminately. That’s why Fen liked her, she treated everyone with the same assumption that she had no use for them. That confidence was very… Well, opposites attract is a universal truth whatever universe that might be.  

 

Josh isn’t done making his point, “That’s practically writing Mrs High King Fen in the margins of her diary for Margo.”

Maybe Fen could see it, in weak moments when finding her future husband seemed futile. When gazes would soften, and fingers brushed. Maybe Margo never made more than a token protest when they shared blankets these days. To be Margo’s Bunny, not anyone else’s. But wanting that impossible thing didn’t outweigh Fen’s legacy.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She tells Josh, trying to put any (acting) kingly power in her tone.

“You’ll have to tell him eventually.” Josh warns, sitting down on his haunches and regarding her carefully.

 

Fen sighs. She knew this was what Josh had been building up too. Before they’d first set eyes on Eliot Waugh, before they worked out that the numbers of the label scrap in her Birthright Box was a date, before she’d voiced the suspicion she’s had when she first inspected the contents. Josh had told her that strangers didn’t take well to being told they had a destiny that they had to follow without complaint.

 

“We don’t even know he’s the High King.” Fen lies, the same story she’s repeated since Yonkers. She wishes she hadn’t been so certain that she would know her husband when she saw him. If there was any doubt, the smallest inkling, that she’d not found him this would be easier. “It could be anyone else.”

Josh shakes his head, not unkindly. “You’re in denial. You know _why_ you’re in denial?”

“Don’t.” Fen whispers. She sinks to the ground, folding her knees to her chest. Like a pathetic child throwing a tantrum because she wanted to stay out and play Bear Skip.

She hears Josh’s soft paws padding across the field. “Because you’ll have to make a choice between...”

“There is no choice. Never has been.” Fen corrects. Fillory needed an earthborn High King that was the way it had always been. And now, with The Beast ravaging the land the Fairies seizing power he was needed more than ever. A whole court of Kings and Queens to turn the tide.

Her Birthright, handed to her before her coronation was to find them. The scraps of paper, indecipherable and frustrating, had been clear. Four pieces of paper for four royals. Josh, Quentin, Margo and Eliot. They’d make amazing leaders she was sure. Whats the point of her bringing them all together if not.   

 

 A furry face appears in her line of sight, resting his comforting bulk on her knees, “That’s not fair on anyone.” Josh declares, his joking tone fully absent.

Fen rests a hand on his solid warmth and exhales shakily, “It’s magic, politics and destiny, no such thing as fair.”

It’s not so bad, Fen thinks at least she’s met Eliot now. When he was an unknown quantity she’d let herself get carried away fantasising about what her High King would be like. Imagining someone strong and passionate, headstrong but with a soft heart that they would show only to her. Who would trust in the protection of her arms in the night.  

“At least he’s nice. We can be friends at least.” Fen offers, “And he’s cute, right?”

“Oh, smoking hot.” Josh agrees easily, “And I’m not the only one that thinks so.”

 

 _Quentin_. Ember and Umber were cruel to give Fen the answer to her prayers by taking away something from her friend. She’s waiting for Quentin to say something to her. Snap at her in the way he’s been doing at Margo all day. Fen loves Margo for how she’s taking the brunt of Quentin’s loss. Margo has accepted Fen’s destiny, despite whatever traitorous part of her wishes Margo would fight against this as she did with everything else in life. It’s another childish fantasy, why would anyone fight destiny just for her.

“Yeah, I know.” Fen sighs, what else is there to say. She gives herself a mental shake and gets up, “Come on, Let’s keep looking.”

 

🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑

 

Quentin looks around Samuel Peterson’s tiny kitchen. From the depth of his cupboards Peterson had located another coffee mug and was currently filling it with instant coffee. The old man was either so used to his own company that he didn’t think to fill the awkward silence, or he just didn’t care.

The whole house told the story of single occupancy. A solitary plate and spoon stands on the washboard, recently washed up. The well stuffed armchair in the front room in front of the tv has collected all the blankets in the place, the couch bare. The half empty fridge with small portions of food in cracked Tupperware. From the outside Quentin had expected the place to be a dusty dilapidated mess. That was nice to see it was not the case. The kitchen cabinets had been recently repainted a cheery duck egg blue. Every inch of flat space is covered in photographs and small items, little gifts and decorative trinkets that only have specific meaning to their curator.

There’s a mosaic of tiles over the sink. Quentin examines it absently but can’t discern any pattern in the design. His phone buzzes in his pocket. Embarrassed, He fumbles it out.

 

         from: UNKNOWN

         to: Quentin

         13:05

         I got ur number from Margo. She’s a real doll in the morning, huh. El x

 

It hadn’t been this bad before. That summer when James had had his growth spurt, or the time Quentin had to share a sleeping bag with Julia and neither of them could look each other in the eye for weeks. Hell, any of the crushes he’s had, short lived and spectacular only in the various ways Quentin found to implode them, have nothing on this.

 He can’t blame Fen for this. He’d asked her, while they’d been hiding from the orderlies to plan their escape from the Midtown clinic, how she was going to find the High King. Quentin recalls it now with a sheen of bittersweet irony, how Fen had smiled and said she would just know. He’d not quite believed her. His reading had taught him there was always a test in these cases; a pricking of a finger, a feat of skill as proof or a wise sage to bestow validity. ‘Feelings’ seemed inexact and little sloppy plotting wise. He doesn’t feel like that now.

 

            from: Quentin

            to: Eliot

            13:06

            A real 🍑, just keep giving coffee and she’s be fine. Qx

            

It’s not like he doesn’t get why it’s important that Fen invests the High King to his rightful throne. No one has ever accused Quentin Makepeace Coldwater of not being intimately aware of the delicacies of Fillorian power hierarchies. Well Julia had, but they’d been five and Quentin wasn’t letting her have a dragon on the small council. That’d been a long playground timeout for both of them.

Because there are rules to these things and you can’t just throw them out because they’re inconvenient to you. Whether it be wanting a dragon as your Captain of the Guard or stopping your friend from achieving her life’s aim because you have a stupid crush.

If you believe in Fillory, Quentin supposes, you have to _believe_ in Fillory. Whatever that entails.

 

Samuel Peterson places the mug down in front of Quentin. He accepts Quentin’s hurried thanks with a grunt. “Which one is Eliot again?”

They’d made this so much easier on Buffy. You just chatted to the relevant side characters and they’d drop the pertinent plot information without any fuss. Or there was always an authority figure who could do the relevant exposition dump. He’d always admired the Chatwins for muddling through on their own. Now knowing the truth that it was all real he supposes they at least had Christopher Plover. They were lucky, Quentin thinks wistfully, to have a chronicler and a father figure they could trust. 

Quentin sips his coffee, trying to look appreciative. The picture Garfield on the front of his mug does not look impressed. Peterson makes his way around the table and sits down, “Is he the one who knocked up Franks daughter, Cindy?”

 Quentin nearly chocks on the scalding liquid, “I hope not.”

 

Margo was so much better than this. She once got a carnival owner to spill the entirety of his business expansion plan by barefacedly telling him she was writing a story for the school paper. Quentin doesn’t think most schools have papers these days.

“He’s the youngest I think;” Quentin clarifies, “Tall, skinny. Soft brown eyes and curly hair.”

 “Oh yeah I seen him around.” Peterson nods, “John has him working all hours now Christopher’s at collage.”

“Do you know the family well?” Quentin asks, as casually as he can. There was no way to subtlety bring up aliens, so small talk would have to do.

 “Not really,” Peterson stirs his coffee. His forehead creases slightly, “Nodding acquaintance like most of the people here. Whiteland’s a good old-fashioned kind of place. We keep an eye on our own, you know.”

 

Quentin shudders. The idea of a community ‘keeping an eye on its own’ doesn’t fill him with the same comfort as it seems to do the old man. It conjures more to mind twitching net curtains and whispered conversations while your back is turned. There were more than enough people in town who were happy to tell how sad it was Samuel Peterson had become such a recluse. Had any of his neighbours bothered to come and see for themselves?  

 As his brain inevitably does, Quentin’s thoughts drift back to Eliot. His small stillness through the glass of the library, how under Margo’s abrasive brand of kindness he’d seem settled into his own skin. How could have none of those people have seen what Quentin had seen at first sight, what Eliot Waugh truly was.

 “I was surprised he asked you to check up on me.” Peterson continues, “I’ve never been close to the family, apart from, you know, distance wise.” He chuckles dryly at his joke.

 Quentin manages a wry smile, “Yeah, he said the police came around?”

 “Fat lot of good they did. Few bits of police tape and told me to call if I see anything suspicious.” Peterson rolls his eyes to illustrate what he thought of that idea.

 “Did you see what did it? Made the ummm...” Quentin faulters.

 “Crop circles?” Peterson takes pity on him, smirking into the rim of his coffee mug. “Looking for little grey men huh?”

 “Something like that.” Quentin mutters in lack of a better lie. He was more interested in a specific human one at the moment.

 “Whatever it was they’ve ruined that field. Going to make ploughing over that land a hell of a lot more difficult now it’s a crime scene.”

 

That was news to Quentin. Preliminary research hadn’t uncovered anything like that. It was common knowledge in Whiteland that the Peterson farm had gone to seed years ago. “You’re going to develop the land?”

Samuel Peterson smiles fondly, “My daughter in law, Chuntao, she inherited some capital after my Paul died.”

He stiffly reaches across to the side table and pulls over a photograph, its ornate fame dominating the space. Peterson points to the image, carefully keeping his gnarled fingers from smudging the glass. “That’s them there.”

 It’s a wedding photo. A laughing handsome man with dark hair, arm protectively wrapped around his new wife. A Chinese woman in simple cream silk pressing her embarrassed face into the man’s chest. Her elaborate bun has come loose obscuring the side of her face, only the blissful corner of her smile visible. They look happy and impossibly young even to Quentin.

 Peterson places the photo down gently, “I told her, you’re a smart girl use that money for something important not this broken-down farm that hasn’t been in use in a decade. But she insisted.”

 He’s still smiling, coming alive with the talk of his family. “Those peach trees were important to Paul. She wants to honour his memory.”

 

Quentin remembers they’d stopped on the way into Whiteland just outside this farm. They’d not known it at the time of course, just another in the long line of significant coincidences that made up his life. Fen was from a world where if you didn’t put up wards around you crops you were clearly okay with people stealing them. She’d already filled her arms with the sweet fruit and there was no way Margo was going to argue with that quivering bottom lip. They’d sat against the van devouring peaches, ripened straight from the tree. Just enjoying the summer sunshine in a rare group silence.

He'd saved one, a secret hidden in his sweater to eat later. Alone in the van he’d savoured it to the last bite, with the confidence of the unobserved to just revel in the sweetness. His memory of seeing Eliot for the first time will forever taste of honeyed juice lingering on his tongue.

 “They’re good peaches.” He offers weakly.   

 Peterson agrees, “Apparently, there’s real money in rare types of stone fruit. Heirloom Peaches, what Chuntao called them. This type only grows here, on this patch of land.”

He shrugs deprecatingly, “I don’t know anything about that but I wish my father had known all that instead of tearing up the old orchards to grow corn, but there you go.

Quentin put down his mug, the shape of something forming in his mind. He’s starting to see the pieces of it, the clues to the mystery and their rough shape. He just needs to work out how to fix them together. “You’re going to replant the peach trees?”

“Sure am.” Peterson said proudly. There’s a twinkle in his eye that was missing before. A sense of purpose. “To late to do anything about this year. But by this time next year we’ll have the new saplings growing.”

He motions out to the corn field Fen and Josh were currently searching, “That field was going to be the first one, suppose we’ll have to rethink that now.”

“So, the peaches,” Quentin asks, “they only grow here. On this farm.”

“It’s the darndest thing.” Peterson scratches his nose in deep thought. “Chuntao’s the one you want to talk to about all the technical stuff, she does all that smart chemical analysis. There’s something about the soil here that makes them grow. Try it anywhere else beyond the property line, the tree will grow tall, the branches will be strong, but you won’t get a no buds, no leaves, no fruit to save your life.”

 

Magic, it has to be. What else could limit the growth of fruit to a boundary line. Honestly, he already thought those peaches were magical, this just confirms it.

“Who would have thought it,” Samuel Peterson smiles to himself, “Peterson Farms, the only home of the Arielle Peach.”

 

🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑

 

Fen is happy to rely on Josh’s nose as they wander around the corn field. Her own ‘superpower’ isn’t revealing anything, only her usual level of anxiety. Their aimless tracking brings them into the main body of the orchard, closer to the main road into Whiteland. The trees thicken as they head deeper into the property. The smell of the peaches relaxes something in Fen, the sunlight dappling the ground calming after the fusty closeness of the dying corn field.

They emerge into a clearing where the trees are the oldest and tallest. They’re taller than even the tree against Eliot’s hayloft. The oldest and tallest of the trees is brimming with fruit, still ripening, despite the others having discharged their burdens a while ago. The reason for the space around this tree becomes clear when Fen nearly stubbles over tree root. The tree’s roots are a long tangle stretching out across the orchard floor.

Josh and Fen pick their way across to it. She runs her fingers across the rough bark, feeling a stab of fondness for her time in the Flying Forest.

“Are you feeling anything?” She asks as Josh makes a circuit around the thick trunk, nose pressed to the ground.

“Nothing,” He reports, settling on his haunches. “That’s odd right, what about you?”

“Not a flutter, I’m not even out of breath,” Fen says plucking peach from the tree. It comes away from the branches without resistance. She admires the fuzzy softness, its flesh a pleasing strawberry blond in the sunlight. Fen inhales the scent, letting the warmth press against her lips.

She pauses as something occurs to her, “Actually I’m, huh…”

Josh stops mid-motion, lowering this paw from where he’d been scratching his ear. “What?”

“I’m breathing fine.” Fen tells him, letting her arm drop to her side.

“Yeah, there’s no danger here, just dirt and trees.” Josh gestures, eyes narrowing in confusion.

 “No Josh,” Fen stares into his eyes, waiting for the importance of that statement to sink in, “I’m breathing _fine_.”

 Josh stares up at Fen as the penny drops. The miles of walking they’ve done had barely made her sweat, no coughing or wheezing. He’d never seen her so unencumbered by her Fillorian lungs.

 “Oh Shit.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chuntao means Spring peach because I'm not above some very lazy symbolism.
> 
> This chapter came together very quickly. I've had the Josh&Fen conversation drafted for a while.  
> When i started planning this fic it was solely to write more of their interactions which i love in the show. But then the Finale happened and this ended up being more Queliot soft idiots in love time. 
> 
> Oh well something else to add to the sequel i keep threatening.


	7. let’s split up: plums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen goes through a hedge backwards, Eliot plums the depth of his family tree

Eliot debates what to text Quentin as he leads Margo up into the attic. The urge to creep on silent feet past his brothers’ rooms still prickles the hairs at the back of his neck. There is still a slight twist of fear in his gut remembering what Jacob had promised to do to him if he came back from Howpoint and Eliot had messed with his stuff. Eliot was a connoisseur of fraternal intimidation by now. Jacob had pushed him out a window five years ago when Eliot had taken his skateboard without permission. Now that his older brother was trying to break into the ‘professional skateboarding scene’ he probably wouldn’t call an ambulance this time. What he thought Eliot would want with a load of apple crate ramps and a fog machine was a mystery to him.

It’s safer to think on Quentin. Would should he say? It has to be something innocuous, flirty yet friendly. Something that highlights their shared interests yet shared something new about Eliot. Margo shimmies up the ladder in front of him. Eliot follows trying not to impale himself on the axe which is sticking out of her satchel. Her eyes are still hooded with the lack of sleep.

        from: Eliot

        to: Quentin

        13:05

        I got ur number from Margo. She’s a real doll in the morning, huh. El x

 

Perfect. Turns out flirting on message boards was a relevant life skill, suck it dad. Despite his confidence his thumb still hovers over the delete key. Is punctuating with a kiss the right move? Is too flippant, too forward, too much. Just because it feels like he’s known these people his whole life doesn’t make it true. He presses send before his second-guessing disgusts himself further.

It’s the setting that’s got him on edge, he reasons, staring around the attic space with loathing. He still expects his father’s red face to poke up from the ladder hole to scream at him to get out of his stuff. Eliot had never been in his stuff, even as a child he wanted nothing to do with the family. But it had been forbidden territory and as a result was eminently more interesting than a proof of multi-generational hoarding, should be.

Any room to manoeuvre is reduced by boxes upon boxes, reaching up to the slanted roof. His father’s incomprehensible filing system was limited to clustered stacks throughout the room. These create twisting shadowy corners where childish fears of monsters living in the dark were born. The splintering roof beams snagged hair and clothes like witches’ fingers and the layer of dust pervading everything tightened the lungs. The window at the far end is covered over with old newspaper, its information long ago bleached into illegibility. The only source of light is a single bulb, the naked filament making the shadows flicker and retreat.  

 

“This shit looks haunted.” Margo comments, trusting her own light as she sweeps her torches beam across the space.  

“I doubt it,” Eliot shrugs with the false bravado of a child who grew up believing that very thing. “there’s…” He pauses as he remembers the other things he believed in as a child that recently have overseen a critical evaluation. “Don’t tell me Ghosts are real?”

Margo smirks up at him around a stack of boxes labelled ‘subsidies 06’. “Okay, I won’t.” she promises.

“I’m going to be so pissed if it turns out Casper was behind this all along.” Eliot mutters. He wanders around the space, trying to locate a place to start within the organised chaos. His eyes are drawn to an old writing desk to side of the room, covered in some modern looking printouts and a stack of slim dusty volumes.  

“I doubt it.” Margo says, inspecting the print outs, “But at this point who knows.”

Eliot hums in agreement. The papers are photocopies of something older, printed off for later study.  The spidery handwriting is already giving him a headache. Without context its already difficult to decipher. The first column could be a list of items and the second their price. Some sort of inventory. Eliot turns it over to see if he can find any clues. His father or who ever had printed it, had clearly not needed any explanation to understand it.

 

“What do you think is doing it?” He asks Margo.

“No idea, that’s Q’s area of expertise.” Margo picks up the first book on the stack and flicks through listlessly, “We need more clues. He’d say he can’t make bricks without clay.”

“Sherlock Holmes would say that.” Eliot corrects.

Margo fixes him with an unimpressed stare, “We are both too pretty to know who that is.”

Eliot laughs, “I still think your very Bella, Bambina.”

Margo doesn’t even look up from the book she’s checking, “Which one of us has actually been to Italy and knows that’s not a thing people say, and which one of us learnt Italian from Audrey Hepburn movies.”

She puts it aside the account book with a huff. The handwriting and brittle label on the front declaring it to cover from 1954 - 1966. Margo’s assessment is worryingly accurate. Once again, he marvels at being so transparent to someone else. It would scare him if turnabout wasn't fair play. The concept of ‘getting someone’ was as foreign to him as the Italian language. It was something he’d worked at getting better at but there was always a disconnect, it was never something that was going to come naturally to him. But Margo, he got her and she gets him in a way that he prays is for keeps.

“You wound me Bambina.” He mocks enjoying her little wince at the nickname. He doubles down, “You mean you don’t want to be my little Bambi.”

Margo’s expression as she picks up another volume is a masterpiece of indifference. She ignores him, and snaps open the book with a punctuating flourish. IF Eliot wasn’t looking for a reaction to his barb he would have missed the real emotion that flickers through her face as something in the volume gives her pause.

“Bambi?” Eliot asks. “Margo?”

She comes back to herself, blinking up at him, “Huh, What?”

“What you reading?” He asks neutrally. Margo’s grip of the book looks too tight, too protective at his reasonable question. Slowly she flips over the book and reveals the cover page. The yellowing paper is dominated by a large stamp displaying two twisting animal horns locked over a heraldic shield, resplendent with ostentatious crowns, flowers and mythical beasts. The broad strokes of the image are familiar to Eliot. He’s always found the image they printed on all the farm advertising to be overly ostentatious. Now seeing where it must have come from, the two rams’ horns look positively restrained.

“Relation of yours?” Margo queries. Eliot looks closer at the words scrawled under the stamp, _Anselm Waugh_. There’s a tightness to Margo’s innocent question. She’s hiding it well, but Eliot can see how her eyes linger on his face with calculated interest. He remembers that Quentin was certain Margo was the better interrogator. Perhaps she considered Eliot a bigger fish to fry than Peterson.

 

The book was strange though. “Oh. weird.” Eliot says, considering the diary closer. “I thought my Grandpa destroyed all of these. This was my great great Uncle’s.” He taps the name before Margo yanks the book back towards herself. “He was like the king of fall down drunk degenerates. There are still some prohibition laws on the town books because of him”

“Sounds like a swell sort of guy.” Margo mutters, almost to herself, her concentration solely on the book.

“He’s the only member of the family I actually like honestly.” Eliot admits

 

Like the attic, tales of Great, Great Uncle Anselm were made more desirable by their forbidden nature. The black sheep of the Waugh clan was always spoken of with clenched teeth and the same distain that crept into his father’s voice when discussing his youngest son. From all accounts a sad drunk who spent his days drinking, gambling and getting into fights was probably as less romantic and more pathetic figure in reality, but young Eliot had to take his anti-establishment heros where he could get them.

“You ever meet him?”, Margo asks, still closely monitoring Eliot’s face.

“God no.” Eliot laughs, “He died decades before I was born. My Grandpa hated him because his father had to sell most of his land to pay off his remaining debts.”

Eliot got a lovely shiver of schadenfreude thinking of his Grandpa literally spitting mad one Boxing Day as he spoke of his relation. One arthritic hand gnarled around a tumbler of whisky, the other gesticulating with his stick. Season to goodwill to all men indeed. He’d died two years ago. Been walking the boundaries of his land when his heart gave out. It was a surprise he’d had one to begin with Eliot always thought.

“The old bastard was going to inherit it all before that.” Eliot tells Margo, “He always said most of Whiteland was Waugh property. Anselm left them with nothing but this farm.”  

Margo looks up, narrowing her eyes in thought, “So, Samuel Peterson’s land used to belong to your family.”

“Yeah.” Eliot garbs a map luckily in arms reach, unrolling it across the floor. The former boundaries of the Waugh land spread across the town like a sepia toned disease spreading down the arteries of roads and highways. In comparison the ten acres that currently made up the farm was pathetic in comparison. “Grandpa and Dad would get really into it before he died. Grandpa was obsessed with those peaches. How Peterson didn’t even bother to harvest them most of the time.”

 

At age ten Eliot was already over anything the farm could offer him. His brothers had been taking out pubescent frustration on their smaller sibling and making himself scarce was the safest path. The one panel his father hadn’t bothered to strengthen between Peterson’s land had been a godsend. Eliot had snuck through the fence and wandered through the trees until he could no longer risk being absent. Thinking back, Eliot wouldn't be surprised if a few secret games of Fillory were played. Pretending the sun that dappled through the trees was from another world, hiding from Paul Peterson and his girlfriend who were using the protection of the orchard to make their own magic. The Peaches were out of this world as anyone would attest.

It was the peaches that had given him away. His father had found one he’d been saving for later in his pocket. He remembers his father's grip on his arm, how the whiteness of his knuckles stood out against Eliot’s skin. The taste of copper in the back of his throat making it hard to cry let alone breath. It had also been Eliot’s fault that his father had been driven to break his rule about leaving visible bruises. The ensuing beating had only been stopped by his mother. Her disappointment that he couldn’t just stay out of trouble, that he always had to make things worse for himself, lingered longer than any bruises might.

 

But this trip down memory lane isn’t relevant to what Margo wants to know though. Her attention is still on the book. Returning again to the front page and that ridiculous shield, too elaborate for a farmer. “He’s writing a lot about them here, Anselm.”

Eliot tucks himself over her shoulder for a better look. Despite his affinity for the man, he’d never read anything Anselm had written. Even if he’d known it still existed Eliot probably wouldn’t have given it much thought. The diary seems to stray into the more depressing drunk side of the equation. The handwriting gets more illegible with his thoughts. Drunken ramblings about growing the seed from the stone. Pages of invective directed at an E and a U. There's a whole paragraph written in a spidery scrawl, already illegible even for the crossing out and ink blots made in a later rage. El has no idea why information about putting up a gate would have angered Anselm so much, perhaps his family had been right about him being a sad useless man.

Margo inspects the passage, before nodding to herself grimly, “I’m keeping this.” she says.

“Why?” Eliot asks when no explanation seems to be coming.

Margo shrugs, her unwillingness to give him an explanation is starting to get annoying, “Dunno, might be a clue.”

 

Eliot’s phone buzzing cuts off the frustration. Which mystery is he supposed to be solving; the Alien visitation or the weird behaviour of his new friends. Quentin’s name across the screen soothes something in his chest.

 

            from: Quentin

            to: Eliot

            13:06

            A real 🍑, just keep giving coffee and she’s be fine. Qx

 

Quentin, Quentin, Quentin, why did he care about him so much. Why did that name make his heart sing, his blood soar, bring the magic from his soul? Why couldn’t he have met him a few years ago. That would have given his performance as Tony in West Wide Story the verisimilitude Mrs Amberlin was always going on about.

“You’re both so gross, you know that.”

Eliot waves imperiously. “What like you and ‘Bunny’?”

The verbal volley Eliot is ready for does not come.

“That’s… It’s not.” Margo huffs.

“You were sharing a blanket. That’s some straight up fanfiction nonsense.” Eliot argues.

Margo turns away, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Eliot will claim he’s only concerned for her emotional honesty, but some of this does feel like payback, “You like her, she likes you. What’s not to get?”

“She’s destined to marry someone else.” Margo hisses, teeth clenched.

Eliot shrugs. “You don’t seem like the sort of person to honour the sanctity of some Pre-engagement. What if the guys a bastard.”

“He almost certainly is.” Margo throws her hands up towards him. Eliot knew she was pissed but there was no reason to lump him in with this royal loser.

“Then why are you letting her go?” 

“You don’t get it.” Margo sinks down onto a box of Christmas decorations. Both politely ignore the slight crunching sound. “You think Fen’s some stupid girl, waiting for a disney prince to come along and sweep her of her feet. But it’s not like that. The only power she has, the only way she could lead her people, is though her future marriage. What is she without that. A penniless knife makers daughter.”

 

Eliot thinks he quite likes Fen the way she is, knifemakers daughter or not. His observation that Margo feels the same can probably go unsaid.   

“Men always think it’s simple, sweeping aside institutional barriers because they’re never a problem for them, but it’s not like that for us. Royalty isn’t just waving from gilded coaches and doing whatever you want over there. The High King and his wife are literally tied to each other and Fillory.”

It’s too much to hope she means in a kinky fluffy handcuff way, “By tied to each other you mean?”

“No sex,” Margo enunciates each terrible syllable, “with anyone else.”

Eliot and Margo give that the moment of horrified consideration it deserves. “So even if this High King is cool, you and Fen can’t…” Eliot trails off.

Margo nods grimly, “Nope.” 

“Fuck.” Eliot pats her knees, feeling guilty for all the ribbing. It made a horrible kind of sense now.

Margo allows it, “Exactly. Fen deserves better than that anyway. Fuck, _I_ deserve better than that.”

 

Sod the Christmas decorations, He won’t be here when they’re discovered. Eliot sits down on the box next to Margo. It’ll just be another thing the family can blame on him. He rests a head on her shoulder and ignores her shaking. Margo reaches up and sinks her fingers into his hair, grounding herself as her fingers twist through the follicles.

“I’m sorry Bambi.” Eliot says, the words feeling slight at the enormity of frustration he can feel radiating off her. The last person he cared about this way, he’d destroyed his relationship with. Nothing could be salvaged from taunting a friend with your own insecurities. It’s selfish, but he’s glad Margo is tougher than Lucas. If it wasn’t for the immovable object of Fen’s destiny he doubts there would be anything the unstoppable force of Margo could beat.

“Sometimes it’s like that. It’s not like Romeo and Juliet for everyone you know,” Margo quotes with her affected tone of disinterest back in place. Her fingers snag in a tangle of hair and she extracts them softly. “Sometimes it’s Twelfth Night and everyone can stay alive and have their cakes and eat it, even if they don't end up with the one they love.” 

“So you’re cross at Quentin because of that?” Eliot asks, still trying to work it out. A horrible conclusion slams into his brain and he voices it without thought. “Oh Christ! Is he the High King?”

Margo’s laughter breaks the tension beautifully. And if it gives an explanation as to why her eyes are slightly damp, that’s also to the good.

“That’s disgusting, no!” she sobs, “Jesus Wept, that’s so funny.”

“So why does it matter if me and him…” Eliot asks, feeling a little put out.

Margo interrupts his self-pity with an eyeroll and a kiss on his forehead. “Not everything’s about you baby.” she lies.

 

🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑

 

Quentin emerges from Samuel Peterson’s house, blinking at the strength of the sun after the darkness of the house. Samuel hadn’t had much more useful to say. He stuck to the idea that it was probably some bored kids, as there was no one who had it out for him enough to commit to such a bizarre prank. It was unlikely he even knew about magic. Honestly if it wasn’t for Fen’s Birthright box sending them here Quentin would think there was no magic here at all.

In no particular rush to meet up with Fen and Margo after the mornings non-argument, Quentin meanders around the house. Through the windows he can see Samuel settling down in his armchair ignoring the tv in favour of pad of paper. There's a map spread out on the table, the curling corners held down with a mug of coffee and an ashtray, crudely made and painted by a child. Quentin leaves the man to his work, not wanting to be caught staring.

He finds the spot where Eliot had seen the alien first appear. He stares up at the top window where he’d seen the light last night. He hadn’t seen the figure clearly, too distracted by Eliot and losing his glasses. The bottom floor window is just as dusty, the glass almost brown from the grime. Underneath there is nothing to see but a few empty plant pots and some old boots dumped inside to disintegrate. It’s a large rectangular planter, holding at least four pairs. Quentin nudges them with the toe of his boot, hoping the solution to the problem will just jump out at him. His shuffling pushes one of the shoes aside revealing a long vertical scratch along the terracotta.

Quentin squats down for a closer look. It’s long and strait, made recently if the red dust on the closet boot hasn’t been disturbed. He looks at the opposite corner, another scratch. Pulling all the boots aside Quentin finds four identical scratches, all the same shape and spacing along the corners of the planter.    

It could be nothing, Quentin thinks as he opens the camera on his phone, but then again.

 

🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑

“I could come at you with a knife.” Josh offers, lolling his tongue out at her.

Fen looks like she’s giving the idea due consideration. “I’d know that you didn’t mean it though.” she reasons.

Josh tips his head to the side thoughtfully. He’s pulled himself upright, resting his front paws on the hedge that made up the boundary line. On the other side, Fen leans forward and rests her own folded arms next to his. Testing what is causing Fen’s breathing improvement is proving difficult. Whatever it was seemed to extend across the land, Fen only slightly getting out of breath once they re-entered Waugh property. But without any Earth magic around it was impossible to test.  

They’d found an easily scalable hedge dividing to two properties but were stumped on how to continue. Fen ducking though the hedge from the Waugh side to the Peterson side had only led to leaves in her hair and a bramble getting caught in Josh’s fur.

“I can be very scary,” Josh argues, hanging his mouth open to full effect, “say ‘oh Josh what big teeth you have’.”

“Oh Josh what big teeth you have?” Fen repeats clearly confused. Brothers Grimm was clearly something not covered at Fillorian bedtime. Although the concept of Fairy Stories over there would probably have a different more terrifying meaning.

“I don’t think you’re really entering into the spirit.” Josh sighs. His mock annoyance does the trick and the wrinkle between Fen’s eyebrows softens as she manages a smile.

“You could look like a Sea Weevil of the Outer Isle and it’d still not trigger my fear response.” Fen says, scratching him under the chin. “I’d know it was you.”

Josh’s back leg thumbs in delight. He’s slightly terrified he’s going to develop some really hard to explain kinks if he ever gets turned back.   

“Feel any different?” he asks as Fen slips over to join him on the Waugh side. 

She shrugs, “No, the same really. My breathing was definitely better nearest to that tree.”

That big tree had smelled good. Even if Josh’s new super nose had trouble identifying the scents that came from it. All he knew was it felt good, like an indescribable contact high. God he missed drugs. He really hoped Victoria was taking better care of his plants than she had his tomato vines.

“Perhaps we should go back look for more clues?”

 

Fen reply was cut off by an unearthly bellow. A familiar hacking growl that made his fur stand on end. He can hear his own heart rate pick up as an involuntary whimper slips out from behind his bared teeth. Fen is frozen to the spot, her fingers five points of petrified pressure into his neck. It’s coming from a shed the other side of the field. A dark smudge on the landscape almost subsumed by vines.

The slight breeze changes direction and the passing scent slams into Josh. The fear and panic contained in the wind has him scrambling away from Fen. it's a heavy oppressive smell and all Josh wants is to run away and never come back. It’s worse this time, the raw panic unavoidable and leaving no space for rational thought. 

“Josh!” Fen’s voice comes to him from far away. Acting on instinct at the feel of her hand on his fur he growls at the perceived threat. She repeats his name eyes gone wide, voice faltering Even as Josh’s instincts urge him to bite she doesn’t move from his side. It’s too much, there’s no room for himself in his own head.

Fen’s cries carry as he gets as far as his long legs can carry him. There is no shame in a tactical retreat he tells himself. No shame at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the quote about Shakespeare that Margo makes is from [The Student Prince](https://archiveofourown.org/works/91885?view_full_work=true) by FayJay a Merlin fandom classic that everyone should know and love. I've always thought it was a very Margo-esque line
> 
> This is turning out to be the longest thing I've written. That always seems to happen when I [write mysteries though ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16358759/chapters/38280626) *shrug*
> 
> This chapter took longer to write than expected, let me know if it was worth the wait. Also I'm wondering if anyone has solved the mystery yet?


	8. jinkies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo has an axe to grind, Quentin ships it

Quentin arrives to a kitchen in chaos. In the time it has taken him to cross the field Eliot and Margo have managed to move the boundary map, two armfuls of the most interesting books and papers downstairs. The table has disappeared under the expanse of paper and card. Any item in easy reach has been haphazardly seized into service. A mug commemorating A No.1 Dad has been commandeered as a holder for a rainbow’s worth of highlighters, most of them missing their lids. A couple of other mugs empty but for a dribble of coffee at the bottom of each hold down the corners of the map. Quentin is glad to see Margo is looking less stressed and therefore less likely to bite his head off if he even so much looks at Fen’s ‘husband to be’. Eliot must have taken his advice about applying coffee to her. 

Both of them look marginally less stressed, Quentin thinks. Margo is lounging back making notes on a slim volume open in front of her. She greets Quentin with a smile, imbuing her easy lean rickety kitchen chair with her regality. he’s been on the road long enough with her to see that Margo has put aside her annoyance with him. Quentin doesn’t have the lightning bolt immediate rapport with Margo that Eliot does, but he knows that smile will be the closest he’ll get to an apology.   

Eliot waves Quentin in with a smile and a sandwich. The lettuce and ham are well seasoned, and the thick door-wedge of bread is both rustic and delicious. He hands Quentin a bottle of hot sauce hidden in the back of the cupboard without being asked. He’s a good cook as well, Quentin thinks in a daze. Sure, it was just a sandwich however, love may be deaf and blind, but it still has taste buds.   

Quentin’s eyes zero in on the skin of Eliot’s arm, bared by his rolled-up sleeves. The left arm is covered in lines of highlighter ink, test swatches running from wrist to elbow. Some of the newer pens and left strong streaks across his skin whereas dried-up nibs have only left a soft blush of colour.  Not to be left out, Margo’s cheek is also daubed with a warpaint line of neon blue. Despite that, Margo and Eliot have found time to use the highlighters for their intended purpose, covering the paper in lines and symbols. Quentin drops his bag and sits down to decipher their work closer.   

The orange star at the edge of the Waugh property is clearly the barn. The yellow line connecting it to the green blob (Quentin is going to charitable assume is an illustration of an alien) representing the place where Eliot saw the apparition a couple of nights ago. A rough yellow circle surrounds the top field where they saw the crop circles. Margo smirks at him as she draws a tiny pair of spectacles in the middle of the orchard where he first bumped into Eliot.

Rolling his eyes, Quentin grabs his plate and finishes his sandwich. Unfortunately, this was holding down one of the corners and the edge sprung up as the weight was released. Margo thunked her axe down, pinning down the paper.

 

“No melee weapons at the dinner table please.” Eliot says, handing Quentin his own mug of coffee. They both try to turn the motion into an excuse to brush fingers, jostling the liquid.

Margo rolls her eyes, “Thank you mother,” taps the blade with a perfectly manicured finger, “pretty cool right.”

Margo can clearly see something in it that Eliot’s lifetime familiarity cannot. To Quentin it looks like any other work tool. It’s not covered in fancy ruins or glowing with power, just worn orangey wood and dulled iron edge. A practical sort of tool rather than a decorative piece, worn and work ready.

“It’s blunt,” Eliot observes, safely running his finger along the blade, “You sure you don’t want me to find you something less old.” 

Margo shakes her head, “Nah, I’ll make use of some of those whetstones Fen is always leaving in the footwells.”

She grabs the highlighter with the strongest ink, a chunky orange nib, and pulls Quintin’s hand towards her. She uncaps the pen with her teeth and starts to colour in his nails with precise strokes.

Quentin decides not to ague, at least this time she doesn’t have any ribbons, “How old is it?” he asks Eliot who is still absently running the pad of his fingers over the axe head.

He shrugs, “No idea, must be pretty old. The blades been replaced, so’s the handle and these bolts are definitely more recent.”

Quentin smiles as he observes Eliot has pointing out every part of the axe, “A real ship of Theseus.”

He grins back in the face of their blank stares, “You know, The Ship of Theseus?”

He waves his free hand, he’s got to earn that entry into the Harvard Philosophy program somehow, “It’s a thought experiment. Right, So, you have a ship that was once owned by Theseus…”

Eliot seized his flailing hand in his and uncapped another highlighter, “Lucky me.”

Quentin huffs but ignores the interruption as a second pen starts colouring his nails, “ _Hypothetical_ Eliot Waugh has a ship that was owned by Theseus buts it’s really old, it’s leaking water, the sails are ripped...”

“There’s a joke about seaman in there somewhere.” Margo observes, manipulating Quentin’s thumb to a desired angle.   

“So, you replace bits here and there until there’s nothing left of the original.” Quentin continues. “if it all new is it still the same ship you started out with?” 

Eliot pulls Quentin’s fingers closer to his lips and blew on the wet ink, making Quentin’s fingers spasm in sensitivity. “What, like in spirit?” he asks, smirking at the expected reaction. 

“Yeah, you know metaphysically?” Quentin blushes 

“Oh well metaphysically, sure.” Eliot rolls his eyes over the hand he’s still gripping.

 

“Ha ha, putting that aside what are you naming it?” Quentin turns to Margo who has completed painting his nails to her satisfaction. It doesn’t look that bad actually. He barely has any nails to paint, what with him still unable to break the habit of nervously biting them. But the bright orange hue looks nice. The green leaf on the thumb is a nice touch.  “You know all the heroes name their weapons.”

Margo move’s Quentin’s empty plate back to its original space and picks up the axe, “Not sure.” She stands and starts to twirl the axe like a majorette. Eliot and Quentin both subtly lean away. “They’re usually bullshit compound names like; Lightbringer of Truthseeker.”

They all consider the axe, agreeing it doesn’t look like a Truthseeker.  More of a Splintergiver or a Barnduster.

“In the Fillory books,” Margo starts with a knowing smile at how Quentin lights up, “Rupert had a dwarf friend who had an axe with a cool name? What was that?”

“Gimlii?” Eliot meets the two sets of angry eyes that fix at him with a smirk. 

“Deelleffe,” Quentin answers. He’d loved that taciturn gold beetle wrangler. The chapter in which Rupert had recovered at Bettlejuice Hall was one of his favourite parts in The Secret Sea.  “Yeah he fought with _Persistence_.”

He slaps a hand over Eliot’s already opening mouth, cutting off whatever quip was coming with a smirk of his own. Quentin hadn’t considered what warm breath on his palm would do to his train of thought.

“Something like that would work.” Margo hefts the Axe thoughtfully. She nearly drops the Axe as the kitchen door slams open. Fen stands in the doorway, panting for breath, cheeks red with exertion. As a unit they rise, Margo holding her shoulders and getting her breathing in check. Eliot stop licking Quentin’s hand and crosses to the tap to fill a glass for her. Fen nods in thanks but her eyes are fixed on Margo.

 

“Margo, I need you.” she pants.

Her face flushes further, “I mean not like, I mean, not _not_ like that…” Fen sputters as the water she’s inhaling nearly goes down the wrong way. “I need your help.”

“Where’s Josh?” Quentin asks, Fen’s ever-present furry shadow not having materialised.

“That’s the problem.” Fen replies, “We were looking around and he must have caught wind of something and he bolted off. I can’t find him.”

“Fuck.” Margo says. She throws her jacket on and tugs Fen’s hand, “Right. I’m coming. Can I trust you two to get on with this?” 

“Now who’s not my mother.” Eliot's mutters, but he jumps to attention the same as Quentin. There was no ignoring that tone.

“Lay on Macduff.” Margo orders Fen. She’s been living with Margo long enough to not need context and leads Margo out into the fields.

 

🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑

Despite her exertion, Fen made brisk pace across the fields straining her lungs as she called out Josh’s name. Margo had taken the precaution to take a picture of the map but even with that she was already hopelessly lost. The repetition of fields was overwhelming, easy to stumble into the stalks and become swallowed whole. The idea of a peacock like Eliot being bound to drab Indiana earth like this is laughable.

Her words to El earlier feel hollow when faced with Fen. They can’t go back once she opens that door, the Rubicon in paper and ink where only she can take the first step. The diary of Anselm Waugh weighs heavy in her pocket.  Margo’s desire to give Fen a few more moments of freedom even if they are tinged with fear for her best friend.  

“He just took off, I’ve never seen him so scared.” Fen says squinting into the horizon for a blur of familiar fur. Why couldn’t the Waugh’s grow something less drab, it made spotting Josh’s brown fur a lot harder. 

“You sure?” Margo was fond of Josh. A few idle hours had been spent intrigued at what sort of human might be lurking under that canine core. Nothing serious, she’s adventurous, but not Catherine the Great adventurous. Josh was likeable but that didn’t excuse how he usually thought with his nose. There was a reason they called it animal instincts. “Josh is the sort of person who might need to ask the Wizard for some nerve.”

Especially if it came in the form of liquid courage. She would happily support Hoberman’s quest to get his body back if it meant he would stop complaining about not being able to drink anymore, and smoke weed, and bake, and garden and (for some reason) ride Ferris wheels.  

Fen shakes her head, something in her eye speaking from more than just loyalty, “Not like this. He was out of his mind. Whatever that thing in the barn is he reacted really badly to it.” 

Margo stops, tugging Fen back when she makes to move on, “What thing in the barn?”

Fen pulls out of Margo’s grip, wanting to keep going, keep searching. Her disinterest in her own safety always worries Margo, but in light of what she’s found, it makes it harder to hide her concern.

“There's a creature locked in a barn over there by the property line. It’s…” Fen shivers, “really weird.”

“You didn’t.” Of course, she did. Fen sticks out her chin. Margo’s a little proud despite herself, that's one of her moves, “Bunny, what if it had hurt you?”

“I’m fine, it was only a peek.” Fen wheedles.

“Still you shouldn’t…” Margo hates and resents that her stupid crush as reduced her to this. Using ineffectual words when if it was anyone else, who didn’t have the baggage of an entire kingdom, she would have slammed Fen into the back seat of the van and figured it out from there. Actually respecting the needs and aims of the people you wanted to fuck was frustrating and Margo was right to have never bothered with it before. She shouldn’t need to teach first wave feminism to a fairy tale kingdom just to get her clit wet.

“Margo. I’m fine.” Fen insists. There’s still leaves in her hair and a lock of hair is sticking up at an odd angle where it’s twisted into a twig. Fen’s breathing still isn’t right and anything Margo says about it will be ignored. She’s wearing dungarees. And that's what takes the urinal cake in this outhouse cesspit of a situation, being attracted to someone who wears dungarees and won’t listen to her and doesn’t want anything from her but to step aside and let destiny take its course. Jesus tap dancing Christ, Fucking dungarees!  

“Luckily It was chained up,” Fen explains, bouncing on her feet from pent up energy. “Couldn’t come after me if it wanted. It had these long twisted legs, all curled in on itself, and these malnourished little clawed limbs.” she mimes pulling her arm into her chest and clenching her fingers into claws. Fen waves her hands and growls like a T-rex and Margo stifles a laugh under an unimpressed eyebrow raise. Margo is 80% sure it’s not a T-rex, Fen was still sure that they’d made up Dinosaurs as a prank on the non-human but she knew what they looking like. 

“Was it what we saw last night?” Margo asks. She’d been at the wrong end of the farm when the crop circle maker had struck last night. She’s heard those echoing howls though, even from the road they’d carried.

“It was making those raspy screams,” Fen shivers, “looked about the same size too but Josh didn’t react like that last night? He was skittish but not violent.”

“He was violent?”

Fen looks guilty at letting that slip, “Just a tiny bit snappy. Margo I’m alright. He would never hurt me.”

Margo turns away and won’t meet Fen’s eye. She can’t be accused of being overprotective if she doesn’t say anything. Something in her face must give her away though. Fen takes Margo’s hand and forces her attention back up to her wide eyes.  “What’s wrong with you?”

 

Margo sighs. Moment over, time to put her toe in the Rubicon like a big girl. She turns fully to face Fen, she deserves that much. “I found it, Bunny, I found the proof.”

“Ember’s taint.” Fen breaths. Her face has gone pale. her eyes drifting over Margo’s shoulder.

“Yeah I know,” Margo says, her tone harsh and bitter in her own ears, “It was stupid, but I was sort of hoping…”

Fen waves Margo’s words away and points at something in the distance, “No, look.”

Margo turns and spots what arrested Fen’s attention. A beat-up pick-up truck is making its way up the road to the house. The thick wheels negotiating the dirt track with the ease of practise. From this far away Margo can just about make out a tall dark-haired man in the passenger seat. She doesn’t recognise the stranger but whoever they are they’re going to be bursting in on Eliot and Quentin in minutes.  She’s pulling out her phone finger’s already flying out a warning. Hopefully they’ll have enough time, God knows someone here should.  


	9. my glasses!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin gets metaphorical, Josh gets his Wizard of Oz on.

The plastic of Eliot’s phone protests under the strength of his grip. Margo’s brusque warning has given him time to act and he’s wasting it frozen in fear. “Shit.”

“What?” Quentin crosses to his side, ready to sooth and help in the face of Eliot’s silence. His eyebrows furrow at the picture of truck coming up the road and Eliot’s disproportionate reaction. His finger’s brush Eliot’s as he pulls the screen for a closer look. A casual intimacy that fear has thrown into stark realisation. How easily he’d accepted it, how stupidly he’d blundered into a confederacy that could get someone else hurt. The danger it now poses spurs Eliot into action. He flinches away from Quentin and gathers the books papers, desperately searching for somewhere non-incriminating to stow them.

On the list of things he doesn’t want his father to walk in on, Eliot using his private records comes to a very close second to seeing his son with another boy. The said boy is watching Eliot with confusion. The crinkle between his eyebrows now fills Eliot with fear where it once filled him with delight. 

“Is that your father’s truck?” Quentin asks, gathering up the books more sedately. Eliot does not appreciate his lack of terror. “It’s okay, surely he won’t…”

Eliot throws the haphazard stack into Quentin’s arms. He can hear the tires crunching on the gravel. It’s too late to send Quentin up the stairs, his father will hear that. No luck in the living room, it can be seen from the front door. “No, you have to hide, take this and…”

Quentin shakes his head, “El, I’m just a friend over, right?”

The hall closet. It’s small but it’ll be enough for now. He just has to pray this is just a brief visit. Eliot pushes Quentin towards it. Letting himself be manhandled, Quentin looks up at Eliot from the open door, eyes wide with inopportune adorable confusion. 

“Aren't I?” Quentin asks. 

How does he explain. The engine has cut out, a car door slamming. Eliot is frozen again hoping the pathetic desperation in his eyes will be enough of an explanation. Eliot Waugh doesn’t have friends over. He’d need people in his life who actually liked him enough to brave the icy chill of his home. He wanted even the possibility of friendship as far away from this let alone what Quentin is. He can already feel his father’s breath down his neck even from outside. 

“You aren't you’re…” You’re a risk, Eliot tries to say, you’re an exit sign in a burning building, you’re too much too now. “Please just get in there. I can’t...”

“You want me to get in the closet,” Quentin motions to dark reses. Despite it all, the shy little smile lightens the weight against his chest just a little, “Or you know get back in the closet.”

If he couldn’t hear the fumbling of keys and footstep shuffling on gravel, Eliot could give that the reaction it deserves. From Quentin’s disproportionately proud little huff, Eliot hopes he gets it. He reaches up and wipes a smudge of ink from Quentin glasses, a small act of tenderness all he can do against the fear beating against his chest.

“Well that was the wrong time to learn that information,” Eliot mutters. “there was no organic time to bring it up, Huh?”

“You mean the most inopportune time just for the drama wasn’t the right time.” Quentin teases. 

This is the worst time to be so known, so truly seen by someone. When he needs to be as inscrutable and blank in the face of impending familial interaction, Quentin’s timing is a prefect disaster. 

Eliot allows only a moment to breath and take comfort in skin to skin. “You don’t know how much that… shit.”

He closes the closet door just as he father rounds the corner. “Dad, you’re back…” early, unfortunately, at the worst possible fucking time, “well you’re back.”

John Waugh drops his keys on the table. Eliot tamps down on the automatic flinch as the metal hits the wood. He makes himself release the door handle he’s gripping slowly. If he thinks he can still hear Quentin’s breathing through the door that’s only the terror talking. 

“They thought Cindy was going into labour. The hospital want to keep her in for observation.” his dad grunts. “Pete needs his overnight bag.”

Eliot nods, trying to bring his heart rate down, “Oh right, that’s why your back from the game.”

His father fixes him. It’s only spite and the solid closet door that stops Eliot from wilting. “Unlike some people I actually care about this family.” his dad says pointedly. “The baby is fine, not that you asked.”

He tosses the information over his shoulder as he moves to the fridge. Eliot also moves away from the incriminating closet, sitting down at the table. Hyperaware, he notices the smudge of orange highlighter ink and he sends a quick prayer that dad doesn't notice. 

His dad observes him over the top of his beer, “I know you think we’re dirt under your shoes, but you could at least make an effort to pretend you care.”

“I do care.” Eliot insists as his father scoffs. “Is Cindy alright?”

He has some sympathy for his sister in law. A prisoner has to feel something for a fellow cellmate. Having to take the Waugh family name, offspring and debts because of one stupid mistake would crush the spirit of anyone. Five months into her marriage Cindy Waugh was following the path set by the original Mrs Waugh perfectly. But it was easier not to tug on those threads. Projecting ghosts onto smoke never helps anyone. 

“She’s fine, you know, the usual late pregnancy hysteria.” Dad dismisses with a wave of his can, clearly frustrated that he was missing the game for women problems. His eyes narrow shrewdly, “I suppose you wouldn't know.”

“Do you want me to drive you up there?” it's the last thing Eliot wants to do but if keeps Quentin away from his dad, he’d drive his father to Timbuktu if he wanted. He’d get in an enclosed space with his father after he’s had a skinfull if it means Quentin can escape. 

It’s the wrong thing to say, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Eliot swallows around the lump in his throat. He tries to remember how thick the door to the hall closet is. When Chris used to lock him in there no one ever used to hear his crying for help, so hopefully Quentin is unaware of all of this. “If you were planning on driving after drinking, you should…”

“I got here alright didn’t I?” he replies, breath sour against Eliot’s face. 

Any answer is lost in the dryness of Eliot’s mouth. All he can think about is Quentin only protected by a few inches of wood and Eliot’s silence. Thoughts of Poe’s Tell-Tale heart are not helping. The contents of both boy’s chests will give them away. 

“Didn’t I?” John snaps, looming over his son.

“Yes.” Eliot manages. 

It takes everything not to flinch as his father rests a heavy hand on his shoulder. The moist palm weighing him down. Eliot can’t look his father in the eye, concentrating on the expanse of fields in the window behind them. The dead corn waving in impossible freedom so far away from this airless room. 

“Lord, I forget how young you are.” his dad sighs, he takes another swig, fingers still digging into Eliot’s shoulder. “I bet you think I’m being a hardass on you for kicks, it ain’t that.   
“You should count yourself lucky. My father was never this lenient with me.”

He takes Eliot’s silence as reason to continue. Mistaking shame for attention and fear for respect. “I bellyached about it as much as you did, but when you grow up and have a family of your own you’ll realise I’m right.” 

The five points of fatherly concern dig into Eliot’s shoulder, physically and mentally at the mercy of his dad’s pep talk. “You think I like punishing you? Huh.”

“No,” Eliot fumbles the answer. “No sir.”

“No sir.” his dad repeats softly. He nods to himself in satisfaction “You’ll thank me for this one day. When you have kids of your own you’ll know that you’ll do anything for them to give them the best chance in life. Your brothers have learnt that. Getting her pregnant was the making of Pete, he’s really stepped up to the plate.”

He drains his beer and drops the can to the table, “Now, I’m letting you go to your collage, be grateful for that. Maybe getting away from home will make you appreciate all I’ve done for you. But while you’re here I expect you to pull your weight, understand.”

Eliot hadn’t thought the variation on the same theme he’d been hearing since his dad intercepted his mail could get any worse. But with his Quentin stuck in the lazy metaphor for personal expression, with only dumb luck and his dad’s not needing to change his shoes keeping them safe, he knew he had been wrong. These words are not new to Eliot but with an unwilling audience he felt the crack of them anew. 

“Ring if you need me but I’ll be out till morning and I expect you to stay at the house, understand?”

Eliot nods. The moment of delight as his dad is leaving is short lived as his dad is moving towards the closet. The closet where Pete’s overnight bag must be kept.

“Let me.” he rushes to the closet. Only opening it the crack it needs to grab the bag. He won’t meet Quentin’s eyes, full of pity and sadness. It’ll be the last straw he knows it. 

Dad looks confused by Elliot's reaction, but doesn’t comment, “Alright,” he pats Eliot on the shoulder, the facsimile of affection galling, “I love you son.”

Eliot tries to meet his dad’s eyes. The same shade as his. “Love you too.” he lies. 

 

🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑

Margo and Fen had made themselves scarce, heading deeper into the fields and away from the road. Margo wouldn’t admit to the shade of guilt she felt, leaving Eliot with nothing but a warning and a prayer, but storming back to the house would only make things worse. She has her own problems to deal with.

“It’s a Fillorian coat of arms, right.” She points to drawing in the diary. Fen runs a finger over the front piece examining the twin horns. If Eliot’s story hadn’t rung alarm bells, Fen’s reaction at seeing it was unmistakable. Margo recognised soft covetous look Fen got in her eyes, every time she encountered anything Fillorian as far from home as herself. 

But she didn’t say anything, just kept examining the image rather than replying to Margo. 

“You were right about the horns on the farm label, they definitely represent Ember and Umber. The Crowns and flowers are self-explanatory, I don’t know what those little creatures are?” 

Fen looks at the pixie looking thing in the lower corner of the shield. “Drupes. Little animals that burrow into the middle of a fruit stone to steal people’s breath when they unsuspectingly suck the juice from them.”

“Well…” Fen’s silence is exasperating, she could at least say something that’ll make this useless mental anguish worth something, 

“What?” Fen looks up at Margo, eyes wide. 

“I thought you’d be happy.” Margo gestures to the books more forcefully than the feigned disinterest she was projecting needed. “Isn’t this the proof you were looking for?”

“It could be just a drawing,” Fen says, worrying at the corner of the page, “Let’s not jump to conclusions?”

“Seriously. I thought you’d be happy!” Margo crosses her arms. 

“I’m happy. I am. We can’t be hasty.” Fen walks through the corn so fast Margo has to jog to catch up.

“Your Birthright box led us to the sole Magician in a family that uses a Fillorian crest on their advertising.” Margo lists, “Taken from the drawings of a relative who was considered crazy by the town and wrote cryptically in his journal. How is that jumping to conclusions?”

“You clearly know who the relative was.” Margo adds in the silence Fen refuses to fill. 

Fen sighs, “Anselm Greenthumb. He was a lesser King, didn’t reign for long maybe ninety years ago.” She hands the book back to Margo, unwilling to look at it anymore, “He arrived from earth definitely post-Chatwin. I don’t know much about him he never lived at Whitespire.” 

“You think he’s the same Anselm as Eliot’s great great uncle?” Margo tucks the diary back into her bag. 

“He got his name because of his, well, ‘green thumb’.” Fen explains. Usually Margo loves to hear Fen’s stories of home, but not this one, “Even when fairy magic was screwing with our crops all of the farming communities around the mosaic where he lived still thrived.”

“And they farmed?” Margo asks, already suspecting the answer. 

“Stone fruit, yeah. Some Plums and Cherries. But mostly Peaches.” 

“Well that’s it then.” Margo claps her hands hoping in the finality in her statement will convince them both. “Congratulations.” She can’t help but add sourly 

At the sourness of her wishes Fen can only bit her lip, “Don’t be angry Margo.”

“I’m not angry. I’m very happy for you.” Margo insists kicking stone in her way with prejudice. 

“You don’t sound… Josh?” 

Ahead of Margo, Fen stumbles into an unexpected clearing. The high stalks give way to a meadow of wild flowers, the riot of colour and shape a welcome shock after the sour closeness of the corn. Poppies, rich and red as blood burst from the earth are dotted around not subject to the strict crop formation. 

Under a large swath a brown dog is lying on his back, staring up into the sun. Josh turns his head and blinks slowly at Fen and Margo, face splitting into a dopy doggy grin as they come into focus. 

“Hey guys.” He says, “Where did you come from?”

 

🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑 👑 🍑

Eliot allows himself a moment, a few seconds to close his eyes and count in thudding heartbeats how long it takes the truck to fade out of hearing. The door to the closet creaks opens as Eliot fixes his eyes at a point over Quentin’s shoulder.

“Come on, we don’t want to waste the rest of the day.” 

“El,” Quentin blinks up at him though the returning light.

Eliot ignores him, “There’s nothing to talk about.” He insists but Quentin interrupts him.

“I’m sorry.” He says.

It’s the worst thing he could have said “You don’t get to be shocked or sorry or feel pity at this.” Eliot snaps, still refusing to meet his eyes. 

“I don’t think that, El.” Quentin promises. That he’s lying about this is galling. Pretending this is all fine and that seeing Eliot’s carefully constructed façade be eviscerated is not big deal. “What I heard doesn’t change my opinion of you.”

Unheeding Eliot’s scoff, Quentin barrels on, heedless words tumbling from his lips, “It doesn’t. I… I like you, liked you before all of this.”

That gets Eliot to look up. It’s the last straw. That now Quentin thinks is a good time to admit that, like that is the solution to all his problems. In the tiny rational part of his mind, buried beneath the avalanche of shame and frustration, Eliot knows Quentin isn’t being cruel on purpose, but rationality has no place in this. 

“You don’t know me.” Eliot returns, “The fact you feel that just means I fooled you, I fooled myself. All the clothes and the poise and the smoking, it’s all fake, just smoke and mirrors.”  
It feels good to say it, to admit to the worthlessness of it all to throw it back in Quentin’s face. “You know those books, in the hayloft. I’ve not even read most of them. There just props, set dressing to make myself look more educated and better off.” 

He stalks around the other side of the table, if he gets closer to Quentin’s lost expression he might lose his resolve, “You think just because I’m destined to part of your teenage magical mystery tour it will solve everything, but it won’t. you can’t just say ‘destiny’ like it’s some band aid. Your stupid crush isn’t on me, it’s on a child’s fantasy. My Dad’s right, I need to grow up. You do too.”

Once the words have left him, Eliot feels hollow. With all of his vitriol and fear hanging in the air between them Eliot has nothing. In its place remains the fear he’d cultivated his personality to distract himself from. His anger has taken his ability to move too. Eliot can only sit frozen as Quentin crosses to his side, too tired to flinch away from the gentle hand Quentin rests on his shoulder. He’s so tired he’ll even accept the comfort it offers even if it comes from a place of pity and misunderstanding. 

“Destiny’s bullshit.” Quentin offers finally. His smile is as small as Eliot feels. “My whole life all I’ve cared about is Fillory. Not school nor friends or even family could touch the magic I felt from those books. So, finding out it’s all true, going on a quest to find the High King it should have fixed everything, you know?”  
“But I’m still the same. Magic didn’t cue my depression, I still have to take my pills I still push my family away. I’m supposed to be spending this summer prepping for the Harvard Exams with Julia and my dad, but I left them behind.” Absently he brushes a thumb over the bared skin of Eliot’s neck.   
“Fen’s got generations of fucked up patriarchal expectations on her shoulders, Margo won’t talk about her family, but you know its not great when both her parents happily accept she’s with the other with no follow up. Josh hasn’t called anyone to let them know he’s even alive.” Quentin scoffs sofly as a thought occurs to him, “Of all of us, I have best relationship with my family, but I still ran away from home.” 

“Fen said, last night, you were in a hospital?” Eliot manages to ask, the words halting from his dry mouth. it’s hard to be soft when the urge to target his rage still beats against his chest. 

“Mental health clinic.” Quentin corrects. He nervously tugs the sleeves of his jumper back over his bared wrist. Eliot realises he’s never seen Quentin with bare arms, always in long sleeved jumpers and cardigans. The accusation of not knowing someone works both ways, Eliot thinks with a lurch. 

“They’d been holding me for a couple of weeks before Fen and Josh found me. You weren’t the only one trying to escape yourself.” Quentin jokes weakly. Eliot rests his hand over Quentin’s. this time the pressure on his shoulder is comforting, chasing away the sensation of his dad’s over-warm sweaty palm. 

“Are you alright now?” Eliot asks for lack of anything to offer.   
Quentin shrugs, “I’m not cured. I don’t think I’ll ever be, it doesn’t work like that. But I’m functioning better than I was.” 

“It’s like, you know Margo’s axe.” He smiles in the face of Eliot’s confusion   
“Her ship of Theseus Axe?” Eliot clarifies. He’s too drained for a non-sequitur this far into the conversation.   
“Yeah, it’s still the same Axe even if bits have changed over the years. Add Magic and some Prozac, take away my certainty in fiction, but I’m still me.” 

What a dork, “You think I’m like that too, huh.” Eliot says fondly. 

It’s a clumsy metaphor but Eliot likes it. He doubts there’s much about Quentin he won’t not like. When he closes his eyes this time its not to a yawning pit inside himself, its to Quentin’s hand small but sold against his shoulder.

“So, I feel like an asshole now.” Eliot says when he can trust his voice not to shake.

Quentin laughs, “Good. You should.”

He gives another smile, the one that it heartens Eliot know proceeds a joke that only Quentin will find funny. “I may not see much without these Eliot, but I can see you okay?

“Ugh.” Eliot annunciates with feeling.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic involves some recreation pot use. Josh (as a dog) does not consume any of the drugs. 
> 
> If you enjoy, please, please leave a comment. I feel this is going to be a bigger undertaking than originally planned so any encouragement helps.
> 
> come chat to me at [pigeonstatueconundrum](http://pigeonstatueconundrum.tumblr.com/)


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